Fatal Symmetry
by jphalt
Summary: Crossover between Kolchak: The Night Stalker and early 1970's Doctor Who. A bizarre suicide at a scientific conference in London pits Carl Kolchak at odds with the United Nations Intelligence Task Force and their scientific advisor, the enigmatic Doctor.
1. What Is Past, Is Prologue

**Rating: **PG-13—for profanity, violence, and a few mild sexual references

**Disclaimer: **Carl Kolchak, Antonio Vincenzo, Ronald Updyke, and Miss Emily are all properties of Universal. The Third Doctor, Liz Shaw, Jo Grant, Mike Yates, and Sergeant Benton are all properties of the BBC. Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart is a joint property of the BBC and character creators Mervyn Haisman and Henry Lincoln. Geoff Mackenzie, Alwyn Regan, Colin Rennard, Arthur Lloyd, and the various folks at the Camfield Bed & Breakfast are mine.

**Author's notes: **This story started out as a mid-sized story, and gradually grew to an epic 10 chapters, a prologue, and an epilogue. This initial posting represents only the first half of the story. The rest will follow: the last three chapters are already done, I'm just filling in some gaps and tweaking some bits in the middle. As this is still a story "in progress," feedback is of course welcome.

**Continuity Notes/Spoilers:** In **Doctor Who** continuity, this story takes place between The Green Death and The Time Warrior. Contains mild spoilers for The Green Death. For **Kolchak**, this story is set sometime after the end of the TV series and contains major spoilers for the pilot movie, The Night Stalker.

**Dedicated To:** Darren McGavin and the late Jon Pertwee, without whose indelible performances this story would not only have been irrelevant, but quite impossible.

* * *

**FATAL SYMMETRY**

PROLOGUE

It was 2:30 in the morning when Carl Kolchak walked into the darkened newsroom of the Chicago branch of the Independent News Service (INS). He was jet-lagged, bedraggled, and weary to the bone, and looked even more rumpled than usual in his light blue seersucker suit and beat-up straw hat. No one was in the office at this hour, and Carl was glad of the solitude.

He fell heavily into his chair and took a moment to just sit there. He turned his head to stare at the tracks of the L-train, located just outside the newsroom window. Then he heaved a sigh, pulled out his small hand-held tape recorder, and began to dictate into the machine.

"_Tyger, Tyger burning bright_

_"in the forests of the night..._

"In his most famous poem, _The Tyger_, William Blake wrote about a beast so deadly, it couldn't help but inspire awe as well as fear. The devil, Lucifer, Old Nick... pick a name. It's that existential dread that lives inside all of us... those thoughts, feelings, and insecurities that we bury deep inside ourselves and try so very hard to pretend aren't really there. And so we keep our 'tyger' pinned up in a cage, occasionally feeding him scraps to keep him quiet and complacent.

"All of this is metaphor, of course. But what if it was real? What if some force could draw all those fears out of their hiding places, causing them to flood the human mind all in one overwhelming instant?

"Well, that's exactly what happened in London, England, between August 11 and 13 of this year. Two days and two nights of terror, which cost several people their lives and at least one man his sanity.

"And to think, it all started at a press conference."

* * *

FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK

_August 11, 7:53 A. M._

_The Highwater Medical and Scientific Research Centre is one of the most respected scientific research centers in London, which in turn makes it one of the most respected such institutes in the world._

_It was the professional home of Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd, 47, a specialist in geology, mineralogy, and gemology. He was also an expert in psychology, which he had studied at university on the simple but irrefutable grounds that it is far easier to pick up women by knowing a lot about the human mind than by knowing a lot about old rocks._

_Whatever his initial reasons for studying psychology, Dr. Lloyd had become highly regarded in that field as well. And this bizarre combination of specialties led to his being called in when a series of tests on an odd lump of white crystal freed from deep inside the ice in Antarctica yielded some startling results._

_Dr. Lloyd was a meticulous man. He had spent two months refining the original data. He had then spent eight months running further tests of his own. Finally, he had called in some independent researchers in both fields, and they had spent an additional four months fact-checking his findings._

_The result of all this testing and re-testing was a conference, beginning that very morning, and open to both the international scientific community and the press. It was already being touted as the scientific event of the decade._

_It was the biggest day of Dr. Lloyd's career, and he had been fretting over every detail all morning. His fussiness had finally gotten his assistant to all but forcibly eject him from his lab; and now he was in the Institute's large lobby, helping the directors and some various sponsors to make sure everything looked just right for the arrival of their many distinguished guests._

_His assistant, one Alwyn Regan, 36, was upstairs in the lab. He was giving it one final going over, making sure all was ready before going downstairs to join his boss._

_If he had been just a little less thorough, perhaps the events of the next few days would have been very different..._

Everything looked perfect, Alwyn reassured himself. The floor and walls were spotless. There were sufficient copies of Dr. Lloyd's prospectus to satisfy both the scientific visitors and the press. And the crystal was in place in its clear plastic display, a brilliant centerpiece to the room. Perfect.

Except...

Alwyn frowned, looking at the display case.

"Oh, goddamn it, Arthur," he muttered.

Arthur Lloyd had been fussing over that crystal all morning, paranoid energy personified. Alwyn had told him repeatedly not to touch the plastic casing over the crystal, that everything was fine, to just leave it alone.

Sure enough, Arthur's fingerprints were visible all over the casing.

"Christ's sake," Alwyn sighed.

He pulled a handkerchief out of his jacket, then stepped forward and removed the casing. He wiped the prints clean rapidly, meticulously, taking care not to replace Arthur's fingerprints with his own.

The case clean, he started to replace it... and then, suddenly, he stopped.

He cocked his head, listening intently."Music?"

It was very faint, but he would have sworn he heard music. Just on the edge of his hearing. He set the case to one side, and then strained, concentrating on the sound.

"Verdi?" he whispered. No, not Verdi. But definitely an aria, as haunting as anything from any opera he had ever heard. He bent his ear toward the music, straining to hear more clearly.

He did not even notice that he was bending his ear downward, directly over top of the crystal.

The aria filled his mind. It sang to him in languages he would never know; yet somehow, he understood every word. It sang of isolation, of despair, of hopelessness and loneliness. Alwyn's heart wept with the force of the feeling.

"So beautiful." Tears streamed from his cheeks. He closed his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest, and let the mournful chords wash over him.

The music cleansed his mind of every thought. He forgot everything; and the more he forgot, the more the music consumed him. As he forgot the press conference and the visiting scientists, the music grew louder. As he forgot Arthur Philip Lloyd and the past months of tests and studies, the music grew clearer. As he forgot friends and family and lost loves and past regrets, the music grew richer and more textured than anything he might ever have imagined.

Finally, when the music had drowned everything in his conscious mind, he forgot his own name. He was no longer Alwyn Regan; he would not have recognized the name "Alwyn Regan" if it was said to him. All that he was, all his thoughts and feelings, were one with the music.

Then the music stopped, and the voice spoke to him.

_Help me._

The man who had been Alwyn Regan did not want to listen to the voice at first. Words were unwelcome intruders now. He needed the music. It was the air that filled his lungs, it was the blood within his veins.

_Help me!_

The voice promised him more music. Not just that one, simple aria. Why settle for one aria, when there was so much more? Overtures and intermezzos, medleys and symphonies, masterpieces of such purity that they would shatter his very soul.

But first he had to listen to the voice. First he had to obey.

The man nodded. "Anything," he swore. "Anything."

Led by the voice, the man lifted the crystal up in his hand. He held the crystal in front of his face for a moment, staring deep into it, waiting. The music started again. Softly now, however, so that the voice could continue issuing its orders.

The man wrapped the crystal carefully inside the handkerchief, and placed it into his jacket pocket. Then he turned and walked away, leaving the lab clean, dust-free, and immaculate... and leaving an empty display case as the room's centerpiece.

* * *

It was only 8:00, and Arthur Philip Lloyd was not due to deliver his opening speech for an hour yet. Even so, the visiting scientists had already started to arrive. Arthur greeted them in the lobby, chatting amiably as the secretary at the reception desk located each man's nametag. Arthur could tell it was going to be a perfect day. He had not felt so energetic since his early childhood.

He heard the familiar chime of the elevator as the doors opened. Arthur looked over, and saw Alwyn Regan step out.

Arthur smiled, and waved a greeting to Alwyn.

"Excuse me," he said to the Swiss professor at his side. "I just need to have a quick word with my assistant."

Arthur sprinted over to his assistant. "Hi, Alwyn. You were right, I definitely needed to get out of that lab. Truth be told, I've going a little crazy all day." He reached out to touch Alwyn's shoulder.

Alwyn turned and Arthur gasped as he saw his friend's eyes. Dead eyes. Utterly devoid of personality or expression.

Arthur reeled back, feeling suddenly lightheaded. He did not even notice as his assistant turned and walked to the entrance, leaving the building.

Several men, both the visiting scientists and a couple of personnel from the Centre, ran over to Arthur, asking him what was wrong.

"N-nothing," he said, shaking his head. "Sudden dizzy spell. I'm fine."

"Big day for you, Arthur. A bit of pre-conference jitters is normal, probably healthy." Colin Rennard, the Highwater Centre's Deputy Director. A thin, bespectacled man who knew his science well enough, but for whatever reason had opted to focus his energies on administration.

Rennard excused himself from the scientists and discreetly escorted Arthur toward the elevator.

"There's a small conference room on the second floor, Arthur. Totally unoccupied. We've got an hour until you're supposed to speak. Have yourself a lie-down. I'll have someone from security tap on the window when it's time. All right?"

Arthur rubbed his forehead, directly over his right eye. All of a sudden, his head felt very heavy, thick with... something.

"All right, Arthur?" Rennard pressed harder.

Arthur nodded. "I... think I will lie down. Thank you, Colin."

He stumbled into the elevator, fumbling with the button for the third floor.

He stumbled from the elevator to the small conference room. He slammed the door shut and, seconds later, collapsed to his knees on the floor. The pressure in his head was rising, the pain worse than any migraine he had ever suffered. He curled up into a fetal ball, clutching his head in his hands, whimpering.

Somewhere at the edge of his consciousness, Arthur was dimly aware of the sound of music.


	2. For I Was Blind and Now I Can See

CHAPTER TWO

"...FOR I WAS BLIND, AND NOW I CAN SEE."

FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK

_August 11, 8:37 A. M._

_I was attending the conference in London. Not exactly my usual beat, it's true. But the reporter originally assigned to the story--one Ronald Updyke, hypochondriac extraordinaire--had overnight developed a severe ear infection which his doctor insisted made it impossible for him to fly. At the same time, I realized it had been more than two years since my last vacation. It took some effort on my part--a little manipulation, a bit of arguing, and a touch of amateur psychology from yours truly--but I eventually convinced my managing editor, Antonio Vincenzo, that I should replace Ron in covering the conference. I think he finally agreed just to get me out of his rapidly-receding hair._

_I hadn't been to London since the early 1950's, more than twenty years ago, and I was looking forward to spending some time relaxing there. I had Ron's research, which I begged, borrowed, and finally stole out of his desk. I figured a couple dull hours at the conference and another hour or so writing it up, and then the rest of the time was mine to rest, relax, and recreate._

_I should have remembered that old saying about rest and the wicked..._

* * *

"Ouch! Hey, watch where you're going, will ya?"

Carl had just picked up his name-tag at the reception table when, stepping back, he had collided with another man. The thought of apologizing or simply walking away never occurred to him. In Chicago, you didn't apologize when you bumped into someone, not unless you wanted to be thought a weakling. You went on the offensive, as loud and shrill as you could make yourself, and forced the other guy to back off. Those were the Chicago rules.

Unfortunately, this man did not know the Chicago rules. Unimpressed by Carl's bluster, he simply looked down the enormous length of his nose, fixing the reporter with a look of absolute disdain.

"That's my foot you're standing on, Mister..." The man scrutinized Carl's nametag. "Mister Kolchak. Would you kindly remove yourself from it?"

Carl's rival bore himself as regally as if he had just been declared King of England.

...or possibly Queen of England, Carl reflected, noting the man's hair, which was curled into a grand bouffant that Carl's late Aunt Harriet would have killed for. The man's age was impossible to determine. He might have been fifty, he might have been seventy. He was decidedly overdressed, in a velvet suit complete with bright red bowtie with a ludicrously frilly white shirt peeking out from underneath his jacket. Topping off the ensemble was a flowing black cloak - almost a cape - that seemed to glide with the man's every movement.

"Who picked out your wardrobe, Liberace?" Carl groused as he stepped (with a small a step as was possible) to one side.

The man's face colored. "I apologize if my attire can't quite match your level of sartorial elegance," he said acidly, eyeing Carl's battered suit and hat. "Brooks Brothers, I believe? Purchased off the rack... twenty years ago. Quite the antique you're wearing, my compliments."

Carl bristled and prepared a sharp retort, which he bit back when the tall man raised a hand and looked to his right. Carl followed the man's gaze, and noted an Institute official making his way toward them.

"It appears we're making a scene, Mr. Kolchak. Can we agree to simply allow each other a wide berth?" The man held out his hand.

"Delighted." Carl shook the outstretched hand, and suppressed a wince as he noted the strength of the man's handshake. Perhaps not the best man to pick a fight with, after all.

The official had stopped approaching, but was still eyeing them warily. Carl and his rival both gave him a short wave. Then Carl turned away, moving toward the entrance to the reception hall.

He lingered just long enough, however, to listen as the other man identified himself at the reception desk.

"Dr. John Smith."

* * *

"I see you still have a knack for attracting attention, Doctor."

The Doctor smiled as he turned to the woman who had greeted him.

"Liz! It has been far too long."

"Five years," she acknowledged, stretching out her hand. The Doctor took the proffered hand gently in his own, then released it.

"So what was that little contest all about?" she asked, indicating the lobby outside. "I only caught a little of it, but it seemed very unnecessary."

"The man annoyed me. He was rude, loud, and obnoxious."

"Whereas you were the soul of discretion?"

"I could have handled it better," the Doctor acknowledged.

They worked their way forward, through a crowd that had already grown startlingly thick. The conference hall was spacious, easily large enough to double as an auditorium. Even so, the room was packed, both with visiting scientists and with members of the international press.

"Quite the turnout," the Doctor observed. He paused by a snack table and helped himself to a croissant.

"Arthur's discovery is supposed to be revolutionary."

"Ah, yes. The magic bauble that will, with proper research and study, make Freud and Jung look like advocates of leeches. 'A breakthrough that will inextricably link the fields of geology, gemology, and psychology.'" The Doctor quoted directly from the Institute's advance press material. "And presumably whatever other '-ologies' they can think to tack onto it."

"You sound skeptical."

"I've seen too many 'revolutionary advances' that turned out to be anything but."

"I know Arthur Philip Lloyd, Doctor. He's an honest man."

"I'm not questioning his integrity, Liz. Let's just say, experience has taught me to be wary of any mere object that can potentially influence a human mind."

The Doctor scanned the crowd as they edged nearer the podium where Dr. Lloyd was scheduled to deliver his lecture at 9:00. "Pardon me, old fellow," he said as he weaved around a large man who had camped himself at the snack table.

"I will say this," he remarked to Liz, "I hope your friend Arthur is comfortable addressing large crowds."

* * *

Carl had to admit, he was impressed at the size of the crowd. He had expected a certain contingent of British and American press, of course. But the room was practically overflowing with scientists and reporters from all over the world.

Most of the journalists had little to no interest in the story, and had come for the prospect of a vacation paid for by their expense accounts. They segregated themselves by country or culture almost immediately upon entering. A handful of Japanese stood respectfully in a back corner, talking rapidly to each other while taking in every detail with unblinking eyes. In 6 months, Carl mused cynically, an exact replica of this building would probably stand in Tokyo.

Near the center of the room, a group of German and French reporters argued heatedly in their own languages; from the few words Carl could pick out, he gathered that the dispute had something to do with the quality of each country's cuisine. Or possibly jelly donuts. Meanwhile, not far from where he was standing, Carl could make out nasal New York whines dueling with flat Midwestern drawls, in a detailed discussion of the merits of football versus baseball. By the nearest wall, a few British newsmen discreetly mocked their American counterparts for calling rugby "football" and football, "soccer."

"Amateurs," Carl muttered disgustedly at the lot of them. Real reporters didn't cloister themselves into like-minded cliques; real reporters stayed alert in a crowd, looking for distinctive personalities and anecdotes to add color to the story... or, better yet, to spin out into a whole new story.

"And speaking of personalities..."

Carl's eye fell on Dr. John Smith, who was chatting merrily with a stunningly attractive woman in her early forties. The woman had a slim figure, long legs displayed to advantage in a perfectly professional but wonderfully brief skirt, and eyes and mouth set in an expression of eternal, almost mocking amusement.

"If that's his wife, I hate him even more than I did already," Carl muttered.

He edged toward an older man, clearly an academic, and tapped the man on the elbow. "Excuse me."

The man turned, his bespectacled eyes haughtily regarding Carl. "Can I help you?" he asked, his voice betraying his complete disinterest in providing any kind of assistance.

"Carl Kolchak, Independent News Service." Carl touched the brim of his hat. "Dr. - ah - Bowman, I presume."

The man's eyes flicked down to his lanyard, then back up at Carl. "So you can read as well as speak. I am impressed." He started to turn away.

"Dr. Bowman, that gentleman over there--" Carl pointed to Dr. Smith. "Dr. John Smith. What can you tell me about him?"

Bowman wrinkled his nose, as if scenting an aroma slightly less pleasant than the spray of a malevolent skunk.

"Oh, him." His voice resonated with disapproval. "Works with the United Nations in some capacity, I gather."

"I take it you're not a fan?"

"Oh, he's intelligent enough, I suppose," Bowman said grudgingly. "But... Well, you can tell all you need to know just by looking at the man. Self-aggrandizing, pretentious, and controversial for the sake of it. He's published a few minor articles over the past few years, which certain people in the academic community have made entirely too much of a fuss over."

From Bowman's indignant sniff, Carl guessed that controversy and "fuss" were things his work had never been burdened with.

"Thank you, Dr. Bowman. You've been a big help."

Bowman sniffed again, then started edging toward a group of middle-aged men Carl guessed to be university professors. To Carl's amusement, the professors found excuses to disperse as Bowman drew near.

Carl checked his suit pocket for his tape recorder, and pressed the "RECORD" button. He moved closer to Dr. Smith and the woman--identified by her nametag as "Professor Elizabeth Shaw"--hoping to overhear some of their conversation.

"I enjoy teaching," Professor Shaw was telling the Doctor. "It may not be as exciting as working with U--" She broke off then, and glanced sharply around the room. Carl turned away fast, scrutinizing the snack table with its array of pastries, crackers, and croissants.

"It's not as exciting as working with you was," the woman continued. "But at least I get to choose my own puzzles, and be the one to solve them. And you seem to have gotten along fairly well without me."

"I was assigned another assistant after you left," the Doctor replied. "We developed a good working relationship--after a somewhat rocky beginning, I'll admit."

"Oh?"

"Jo wasn't as qualified as you were, Liz. To be honest, my first impression of her was far from favorable. She was too young, too flighty, practically a child. I took her on as a burden and, at first, wished for nothing more than her departure." Carl noted the Doctor's wistful, melancholy tone, which belied his harsh words.

"So what happened?" Liz asked.

"I suppose I... I grew accustomed to her. She was with me for more than 3 years. It started to seem natural that she would be there, at my side, ready to - what was it you said, the day you left? - to 'hand me my test tubes and tell me how brilliant I was.'"

"She left." The Doctor nodded sadly. "You miss her."

"The lab seems much larger, colder, and emptier lately," he allowed. "More and more often, I find myself wondering why I stay. I don't have to stay anymore, you know. And if it comes to it, I really don't think Lethbridge-Stewart needs me as much as he used to."

"Perhaps you've become accustomed to being here," Liz suggested.

"Perhaps."

Carl discreetly stopped his tape and moved away from the conversation.

He felt vaguely disappointed. Here, he had thought Dr. Smith was a larger-than-life personality, someone who surely had a story behind him. But underneath the dandified clothes and regal bearing was nothing more than a lonely old man who missed his lab assistant and was thinking of quitting his job. All quite depressingly mundane.

"What's the matter, mate? Y' look like someone came down your chimney and stole yer Christmas." A cheerful Scots accent boomed out at Carl, and a beefy red-faced man grinned as he approached.

The big man thrust an oversized hand at Carl. "Geoff Mackenzie, **Aberdeen Post Weekly**."

"Carl Kolchak, INS--ah, Independent News Service," Carl replied, cringing slightly at Geoff's iron grip.

"Good to meet yeh, mate. So why the long face? What's the story?"

"There isn't one," Carl said. "I thought there might be, but..." He spread his hands helplessly and shrugged.

Geoff chuckled. "Aye, I know the feeling well. Still, at least you're lookin' for stories. Most of the young ninnies here seem to have forgotten they're even supposed to be journalists. Not like our day. Then it was hit the bricks and find a story - a good one - any way y' can. An' if it turns out y' can't... then hit the fuckin' road. Learned some hard knocks, as a cub reporter in Glasgow in the '40's. You?"

Carl nodded. "New York at the turn of the 1950's. Pretty much the same story, though."

"Aye. Well, it's surely nice to meet another dinosaur."

"Dinosaur?" Carl frowned.

"Yeah." Geoff pointed toward the front of the room. "Look down there, mate. Tell me what you see."

Carl followed Geoff's large finger, and scowled at the sight of several technicians, setting up video cameras and testing lighting and focus at the podium. Each camera carried a logo. Some Carl recognized: BBC, ITV, ABC. Others were completely foreign to him. But they all stood for the same thing. The lowest form of journalistic life.

"Television journalists," Carl spat.

"The future," Geoff countered. "The papers we write for, they're used to wrap fish and line kitty litter boxes. They're the ones people are gettin' their news from these days."

"Bah!" Carl replied. "A few pretty pictures, a few seconds talking to someone who's either too earnest or too hysterical, all wrapped up with a homily from some pretty idiots who wouldn't know a story if it bit them on the ass. That's not news, it's fast food!"

"People like fast food, mate. Like McDonald's in your country. It's quick, it's cheap, and nobody has to think too hard about what goes into it. That's the future. You an' me? We're just dinosaurs, waitin' for the meteor to hit."

Carl found himself with no reply. He glanced up at the clock. Only a few minutes left until 9. He checked his tape recorder again, then waited silently for Dr. Lloyd and his speech.

* * *

9:00 came, and 9:00 went, with no sign of Dr. Lloyd. The low murmur that permeated the conference hall took on an increasingly impatient note. Not too far away, Carl heard Dr. Bowman complaining about "charlatan upstarts." And as the minutes ticked by, the academics surrounding Dr. Bowman started to seem inclined to agree.

"Bad idea, keeping a room like this waiting," Carl remarked to Geoff.

The Scotsman just shrugged, seeming unconcerned. "Scientists. No real sense of punctuality, not like normal people."

Carl was about to reply, when the room suddenly went dead quiet. He saw a startled look on Geoff's face, and turned to follow the Scotsman's gaze.

Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd stood just inside the doorway. Carl recognized him instantly from the photographs he had seen. But the Dr. Lloyd that stood here now had none of the self-possessed, easy confidence of the man in the photos. This Dr. Lloyd had a dazed, glassy look in his eyes. He wavered in the air, as if half-asleep. As he stumbled through the room, scientists and reporters alike backed away.

"My fault," Dr. Lloyd whimpered to himself, seemingly unaware of the crowd. "All my fault."

Clasped in his left hand was an obsidian black revolver.

"I'm sorry," he rambled in his whimpering voice. "I didn't know, I didn't mean to... I'm sorry!"

"What didn't you know?"

Carl was startled to hear this second voice, breaking into the quiet. He was even more surprised by the speaker - Dr. Smith had stepped out into the aisle that had opened itself around the troubled man. Even now the Doctor approached, his arms outstretched in a non-threatening gesture.

Dr. Lloyd looked up sharply, as if shocked to be addressed.

"Steady on, old man." The Doctor took another step forward. "Just look into my eyes and tell me what it is that you didn't know."

Dr. Lloyd shook his head. "My life, my... everything. I was wrong, I was so wrong. I'm sorry!"

"Why are you sorry?" Another step forward.

Carl raised his camera and snapped off a couple quick pictures of Dr. Lloyd, standing with the gun in his hand, and of Dr. Smith, approaching him. He wasn't the only reporter recovering from the shock. Camera clicks reverberated through the room, while flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

Dr. Lloyd blinked in the face of the flashes, backed away. He raised his gun.

"Stop!" The Doctor's voice. Not directed to the man with the gun, but to the crowd instead. The note of command in his voice was undeniable. To his own surprise, Carl found himself lowering his camera; over the course of the next three seconds, and under the Doctor's relentless glare, all the clicks and flashes stopped.

The Doctor turned back to Lloyd. "I want to help you, Dr. Lloyd."

"What?" Dr. Lloyd didn't quite seem to understand the words. "Help me? But I... no. The music." Whimpering again. "The music..."

"What music?"

"It's everywhere. Can't you hear it?"

"No, I can't. Tell me about it." Another step forward. Just two more steps...

"It's all around. It's angry with me. I didn't know!" Dr. Lloyd shouted at the air around him. "I didn't know!"

Then Lloyd recoiled and reeled backwards a step. Dr. Smith moved forwards a step to keep pace with him.

"I didn't... understand," Lloyd whispered, his face ash. "I was blind."

"Talk to me," the Doctor said, stretching out one hand as he stepped forward again. "Give me the gun, and tell me all about it."

Lloyd's eyes seemed to focus on the Doctor for the first time. He looked into the taller man's sincere, compassionate gaze. He started to hold the gun out. As he did so, Carl realized that he was actually holding his breath.

Then--

"No!" Dr. Lloyd shouted, and somewhere in the room a woman screamed.

Lloyd leveled the gun at the Doctor's chest. "Get away! Get away from me! Get away!"

The Doctor raised his arms up, away from Lloyd. "It's all right, old fellow. I'm not going to harm you."

"You don't understand!"

"Tell me," the Doctor said. "Just keep the gun on me, and tell me."

Dr. Lloyd shook his head. "I was blind," he said, tears falling from his eyes. "I was blind until the music came. And now..." And he grinned suddenly, beatifically. "Now I can see."

He lifted the gun again - pressing the muzzle firmly against the side of his own head.

"No!" the Doctor shouted, lunging forward.

But it was too late. The sound of the gunshot roared angrily through the room.

Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd, one of the best and brightest of his generation, was dead.


	3. If It Bleeds, It Leads

CHAPTER THREE

IF IT BLEEDS, IT LEADS

The lifeless body hung in the air for a single, endless heartbeat. Then it fell to the floor, right at the Doctor's feet.

There was a pause. A brief interlude of stunned silence. It lasted a whole second, Carl guessed - maybe even two seconds. Then the reporters surged forward in a desperate wave, with all the force and fury of a tsunami.

The next few minutes were a blur of chaotic activity. As the scientists rushed away from the body, toward the exits (or the restrooms or garbage cans, for those who were overcome with nausea), the reporters kept straining closer and closer to it. Flashbulbs popped all around the room. Reporters cursed and shoved against each other, straining for a better view of the corpse. A few of the newsmen tried to interview the Doctor, asking the usual inane questions - "How do you feel?" and "Were you scared?" He gave them a look of such unadulterated revulsion, that they backed away quickly and focused on the dead man instead.

Carl's first impulse was to rush in with the rest of them. But the spectacle of the feeding frenzy before him changed his mind. He stood there a moment, watching the ladies and gentlemen of the press clawing like vultures, salivating over the dead meat. These same men and women had been standing around, bored and idle, just a few minutes before. The scent of death had awakened them, flushed their cheeks blood-red with adrenaline and brought a gleam to even the most jaded of eyes. The reporters weren't shocked by the suicide, Carl observed. They were revitalized by it.

Slowly, deliberately, Carl climbed onto a snack table near the back of the room. He lifted his camera and started snapping pictures. Not of the corpse, but of the carrion surrounding it.

He spotted a pretty young blonde who looked like she had probably been a cheerleader in school (all of two years earlier, he guessed). She was the TV reporter who had been nearest Dr. Lloyd. When he had shot himself, some of the gore had splattered her face and hair.

She had a handkerchief out, and was clearly about to wipe away the mess. Then she stopped. A calculating look came into her eyes. She put the handkerchief away, then gestured to her camera crew to start shooting her.

Carl kept his camera on the woman, snapping a photographic record of her moment of blood-spattered glory. When he lowered the camera at last, he grinned like a hungry shark would grin, moments before devouring its prey.

He checked to make sure his tape recorder was still going, then eased into the crowd. He had the pictures; now he needed some quotes to go along with them.

Carl cynically reflected that the words and phrases he recorded over the next few minutes probably formed the truest portrait of humanity ever put to tape.

"-editor thought it was going to be a bunch of tedious academic bafflegab, had to twist his arm to get him to even send me. Well, this'll show the bastard!"

"-yeah, we got the money shot. Kept the camera right on him, smack on his face when he pulled the trigger. Might have some trouble with the censors, but we'll get it on somehow."

"Do you think he was on drugs?" "Must've been. Did you see the glassy look in his eyes?" "Yeah, and the way he babbled on. LSD, I'd swear to it." "Probably an addict the whole time. I'll bet this whole conference was the result of one big acid trip."

"Let me through! I just need one close shot of his head!" "What's left of it, you mean!" Laughter.

Carl took a few surreptitious shots of the grins and laughter, then eased out of the crowd before the police arrived.

* * *

The police quickly restored order, first ushering the journalists away from the body and then moving them to the door. None of the reporters tried to evade; no one wanted to be the last one to file the story, and nothing slowed a story down like a few hours in jail.

Outside the Institute, the officers were already taking down names and witness statements from the scientists, who were organized into several lines in front of waiting police offers. As the reporters emerged, they were directed to join the queue.

"Once you provide us with your name and either the name of your hotel or a telephone number, you may go," a burly sergeant informed them in a loud Cockney accent. "No questions from the press at this time. Let's move this along as quickly as possible, please."

Once they had provided their information, most of the scientists left immediately. The journalists lingered, waiting for the inevitable official statement from the Institute.

"Bloody amazing!" Geoff enthused, bouncing up to Carl like an overweight Scottish Tigger. "Guy blows his brains out on the biggest day of his life! Shame all these other vultures saw it, too. Still, guess we know what'll make the front page of every paper tomorrow, eh mate?"

"And on TV in about 5 minutes," Carl said, pointing.

The blonde woman he had noticed inside, still wearing the dead man's blood as if it were a trophy, was setting up in front of an ITV news van that had arrived a few minutes ago. Carl guessed that they were already splicing tape.

Or done splicing. A tech gave the woman and her cameraman the thumbs-up. There was a brief countdown, the tech signaled, and the pretty, blood-spattered blonde sprang to life:

"This is Jane Greer, live from the Highwater Medical & Scientific Research Centre, where a scientific conference has ended in shocking tragedy. Less than an hour ago, Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd, the man responsible for this conference, shot himself through the head in front of a large crowd of witnesses - myself included. Unnamed sources speculate that Dr. Lloyd had been battling a drug problem for some time. We have some video of the incident, which we recorded earlier. I must warn you, this footage is extremely graphic and unsuitable for young children."

There was a pause, then one of the techs nodded at Jane that the video was going. She relaxed, and started joking with the techs. "Like my hair?" she asked, pointing to a smear of blood that had worked its way thoroughly into the blonde.

Carl felt nauseous.

"Unnamed sources," he said, fuming. "Codeword for 'We made it up.' "

"Ronald fuckin' McDonald's," Geoff agreed, sounding as disgusted as Carl felt. "You can't stop the future, mate."

"No," Carl said. "Can't stop it."

He raised his camera and snapped three shots of Jane: first putting on an earnest look; then giggling; and finally, sticking her tongue out at the microphone.

_I can't stop it,_ he thought, _but maybe I can fry a little of the fat off it._

* * *

FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK

_The police took the body away fairly quickly. I suppose there wasn't a lot to investigate about a suicide witnessed by well over 200 people. A detective stayed to take a detailed statement from Dr. Smith inside the Science Centre, while a couple of uniformed officers guarded the entrance. But it was the consensus among the gathered press that these steps were mere formalities. All that remained to this case was the autopsy._

_Quickly realizing that the crowd of reporters wasn't going to just go away, the Science Centre sent out a junior spokesman to provide a statement. It wasn't much of a statement - condolences to Dr. Lloyd's friends and family, half-hearted promises that his research results would be released at a later time. No questions were taken, and those that were yelled out (mostly asking about drugs) were ignored._

_The reporters started to disperse soon after. I stayed, hoping for a few words with Dr. Smith. It was a decision that would change everything about the rest of my London visit..._

"They're taking a long time with him," Carl mused.

A good twenty minutes had passed since the Science Centre's official statement, and Dr. Smith had still not emerged. The two uniformed officers still stood at the doorway, an implacable barrier.

"What does it matter?" Geoff asked. "We got the story. What else is he gonna add? 'Sorry I didn't save the whacked-out bastard's life, but there ya go?' Let's get our stories in and grab a pint down at the pub!"

Carl shook his head. There was a familiar, nagging feeling tugging at the edge of his subconscious. "Something's not right here," he said. "I can smell it."

"Might just be my after-shave," Geoff grunted - but his grunt was half-hearted, and Carl noticed that he didn't make any move to leave.

Carl's patience was rewarded about 5 minutes later. The cavalry arrived.

Not that anyone could have realistically described the two military vehicles that pulled into the Science Centre as a cavalry. But the sight of the battered troop transport and the carefully maintained army jeepput Carl in mind of old 1930's movies. The straight-backed officer sitting in the jeep's passenger seat even looked a little like Errol Flynn. Well, he had an Errol Flynn mustache, at any rate.

Carl lifted his camera and snapped two photos of the vehicles. He focused in tight on the logo on the side of each door: "UNIT."

A logo Geoff obviously recognized, from the sharp intake of breath in Carl's ear.

"Bloody UNIT," he hissed. "What the fuck are they doin' here?"

As the vehicles parked, a good half-dozen uniformed soldiers jumped out of the back of the troop carrier. They immediately fell into formation.

The driver of the jeep stepped out. A lanky man whose sergeant's uniform managed to be crisp and vaguely rumpled at the same time. He walked around the front of the jeep to hold the door open for his superior.

"Thank you, Benton." A gruff voice, that carried with crystal clarity across the parking lot.

Even had he not been in uniform, this man would have been unmistakable as the commanding officer. He wasn't the tallest man there, nor was he the toughest in appearance. But his every move, step, and gesture spoke of a lifetime in military service.

The soldiers drew to attention even before the sergeant - Benton - barked the order. Another order, and the entire group marched in perfect step to the entrance.

Carl snapped another photo as the officer spoke with the policemen. The detective emerged and shook the soldier's hand. Then the police dissipated, returning to their vehicles.

Dr. Smith still had not emerged.

"Hold this," Carl said, unslinging his camera and passing it to Geoff.

"I wouldn't--" Geoff started to say.

But Carl was already gone, trotting across the parking lot to the entrance.

"Excuse me, General!" he called out, before the military man had a chance to go inside.

"It's Brigadier, actually. Brigadier Alistair Gordon Lethbridge-Stewart." The mustached officer turned to look at Carl. His gaze carried a crisp confidence that was completely natural, and all the more unnerving as a result. "A very different rank than General, though your American military seems confused on that point. What can I do for you, Mister...?"

"Kolchak. Carl Kolchak, INS. Independent News Service."

"Ah, yes. A reporter." The look in the soldier's eyes was similar to the look one might give to a particularly small gnat at a picnic.

"Yes," Carl acknowledged, flashing what he hoped was a disarming grin. "I, uh... It's rather embarrassing, actually. But I left my camera inside the conference hall, and was hoping--"

"You were hoping I would let you inside for a moment to retrieve it?"

"Well... if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

The Brigadier gave a friendly smile. "Mr. Kolchak, there is nothing that would give me greater pleasure than to refuse you."

Around the smile and the friendly tone, it took a moment for the word "refuse" to register. Then Carl began to splutter. "But, wait a minute. That camera is--"

"Mr. Kolchak, under no circumstances will you enter this building. Not for a camera. Not for an army of cameras. If a dozen tanks were to appear and point their cannons at me, threatening to fire unless I allowed you entrance... even then, I and my men would fight to the death to keep you outside this building. Do I make myself clear?"

"But my camera--"

"Do I make myself clear?" A dangerous edge entered the Brigadier's voice, and Carl suddenly became aware of just how tall and broad-shouldered the soldiers surrounding him were. Carl swallowed thickly, nodded.

"Excellent," the Brigadier said. "Now your camera, if it exists, will be returned to you in due course. Leave the make, model, and serial number with Sergeant Benton here, and I'll see to it that it's delivered to your room by the end of the day. Benton, take down Mr. Kolchak's particulars please."

Carl started edging away, only to find himself backing into a pair of very large men who had taken up position behind him.

"Actually," he said quickly. "Now that I think about it, that really won't be necessary. I'm pretty sure I saw a friend grab my camera on his way out."

"How convenient." The Brigadier smirked. "Still, something so valuable as a camera, we mustn't take chances. Sergeant Benton will take down your information before you leave."

"But--"

"What is it you Americans say, Mr. Kolchak? Oh, yes. Have a nice day."

The Brigadier turned and vanished into the building, leaving Carl in the center of six soldiers, all glaring down at him with decidedly unfriendly looks on their faces. He doffed his hat in what he hoped was a friendly manner, giving the soldiershis best and mostsheepish "don't-hurt-me" grin.

* * *

"Wretched man," the Brigadier commented as the doors closed. "The American press must be even worse than our own, if he's representative."

"Watergate," a man standing near the elevator explained. "Their press led a President to resign just last year. Now they all fancy themselves Kingmakers."

The man stepped forward, offering his hand. "Colin Rennard, deputy director of the Highwater Centre."

The Brigadier shook his hand and made polite noises as the Doctor emerged from the conference hall.

"Brigadier," he said. "About time you got here."

"Following your advice, Doctor. Waiting for the press to leave. Well, most of the press. Now what's so urgent that it demands UNIT's full attention?"

"I'll show you," the Doctor said. "Dr. Rennard?"

"Of course."

Rennard led Lethbridge-Stewart and the Doctor into the elevator and pressed the button for the third floor. As the elevator doors closed, Rennard and the Brigadier both lapsed into that silence unique to elevator compartments, watching the indicator lights in a brief, half-hypnotized stupor. The Doctor looked from one to the other, then gave a weary and impatient sigh as the compartment settled and the doors slid open again.

As they stepped out of the compartment, the Brigadier became instantly alert again. "Do we know how he got the gun?" he asked.

"One of our security people," Rennard replied. "Arthur - that is, Dr. Lloyd - was complaining of dizziness, and went to have a lie-down in the small conference room on this floor. A guard went to fetch him a few minutes before 9. As soon as the man entered the room, Arthur... well, it appears Arthur jumped him. Like a wild animal, the guard said."

"And Dr. Lloyd got the guard's gun away from him," the Brigadier finished, his voice and face as cold as flint.

"Yes," Rennard confirmed.

"Is that guard licensed to carry firearms?"

"Yes, of course."

"Not after today, he isn't. A man who's careless with his sidearm shouldn't be carrying one."

Rennard started to reply, probably to defend his man. The Doctor interjected.

"Isn't this the way to Dr. Lloyd's laboratory?" he asked, pointing down a long hallway.

Rennard looked down the hallway, nodded.

"Sorry, I got distracted." He led them to the lab door, unlocking it with his key and opening it up for them.

"Through here, gentlemen," he said, ushering them inside.

The Brigadier was immediately struck by the contrast between this laboratory and the Doctor's lab back at UNIT. Where the Doctor's lab was one giant disorganized clutter, this room was spotlessly clean. Everything had a place, and everything was secured in its place. Slides, chemicals, and test tubes were secured in their appropriate holders, and each slide and tube was labeled with painstaking precision. A row of filing cabinets neatly adorned one wall, with the contents of each drawer similarly labeled.

"A meticulous man, Dr. Lloyd," the Brigadier observed. "Perhaps you might pick up a few tips about organization, Doctor."

The Doctor scowled. "If you're done admiring the domestics, perhaps you should direct your attention to the table in the center of the room."

The Doctor pointed to a table, on which stood an empty display case. The lid to the case sat next to it, on the table's surface.

"Dr. Lloyd's crystal," Rennard explained. "It was found in Antarctica by an Australian team, discovered approximately 8.5 meters beneath the ice."

"It's gone," the Brigadier said.

"Your grasp of the obvious is as astonishing as ever, Lethbridge-Stewart," the Doctor said dryly.

"Its disappearance was discovered shortly after Dr. Lloyd's suicide," Rennard told him. "Though we have reason to believe the actual theft occurred some time earlier."

"Who had access to this room?" the Brigadier asked.

"Several personnel. But most of them were downstairs the entire morning. There's only one man left unaccounted for by the police."

"Alwyn Regan," the Doctor supplied. "Dr. Lloyd's personal assistant, who was observed leaving this building just before Dr. Lloyd's sudden dizzy spell. An interesting coincidence, wouldn't you say?"

The Brigadier sniffed. "I don't believe in coincidences, Doctor."

"Neither do I, Lethbridge-Stewart. Neither do I. In any case, the police have already put out an alert for him."

"Good," the Brigadier said, nodding. "So, that only leaves one question. Why are we here?"

The Doctor raised an eyebrow. "Becoming existential in your middle age?"

"You know what I mean, Doctor. A theft and a probably homicide, which it sounds like the police already have well in-hand. It hardly falls within UNIT's purview."

The Doctor bristled. "Let me remind you that this conference was attended by leading press and scientists from around the world," he said sharply. "As such, this incident might easily be considered internationally sensitive."

"Oh, I will run it by Geneva," the Brigadier said. "But I see no reason to interfere in the police investigation in the meantime."

"Then let me give you a reason. Dr. Rennard, would you give the Brigadier the file you showed me earlier?"

"Certainly, Doctor." Rennard opened one of the file cabinets and pulled out a manila folder.

As the Brigadier perused the file, the Doctor moved to his shoulder to translate. "This sheet is a breakdown of the chemical composition of Dr. Lloyd's crystal. Most of it's not particularly unusual. 4.25 sodium, 7.85 calcium, 42.9 oxygen, 31.2 silicon... very near to the chemical composition of your typical plagioclase crystal."

"In English, Doctor?"

The Doctor sighed. "Most of it's like your run-of-the-mill crystal," he said impatiently. "But look here." He pointed at the bottom of the list. "Three separate compounds, one making up 3.2, one making up 1.75, and one making up a full 7 of the crystal. And all three of these - "

"Unidentified," Rennard finished. "They are not recognizable as Earthbound elements."

"I won't even get into the atomic structure," the Doctor said.

"Thank you," the Brigadier replied quickly.

"Suffice it to say, I very much doubt that this crystal originated on this planet."

The Doctor fixed the Brigadier with a look, and waited for this to sink in. The Brigadier clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room slowly.

"So the crystal is from outer space," he said slowly.

"Almost certainly."

"How did it get to Antarctica?"

Rennard cleared his throat. "While the vast majority of meteors burn up in the Earth's atmosphere, it is a well-known fact that some meteors have remained intact to strike the Earth. There are craters that have actually been turned into tourist spots. Our studies of the crystal suggested it was a part of a larger structure. Likely the crystal was inside a meteor of solid rock, enabling it to survive our atmosphere."

"And it landed in Antarctica?"

"Probably quite some time ago," the Doctor said. "And it remained there, buried in the ice, until the Australian team dug it up a few years ago."

"All very interesting," the Brigadier acknowledged. "But I still fail to see a reason for UNIT to get involved."

"The reason is the entire point of this conference, Brigadier. Dr. Lloyd's research showed clear evidence that the crystal has properties that can affect the conscious mind."

"Mind control?"

Rennard gave a short laugh. "Nothing so melodramatic," he insisted. "But Arthur did demonstrate that the crystal lets out an intermittent sub-harmonic wave--"

"Sounds too low for the human ear to hear," the Doctor translated.

"--which was consistently shown to have a calming effect on agitated laboratory animals, from guinea pigs to chimpanzees."

"Some of your human colleagues reported feeling a similar influence," the Doctor noted.

"Yes, though that evidence remains purely anecdotal. It was Arthur's belief that these subharmonic waves could be studied, then replicated and applied to the treatment of mental illness."

"Wasn't there one case of the crystal having the reverse effect?" the Doctor asked. "Agitating instead of calming?"

Rennard frowned. "Well, there was one anomalous incident," he said. "Our most placid test subject was a rather fat, domesticated guinea pig the junior staff had dubbed 'Fluffy.' More of a pet than a test animal, to be honest."

"And what happened to Fluffy?"

"Well, we were testing the crystal's effect on agitated animals, but we also needed to see what effect it would have on calm animals. Mostly, animals that were already calm would become sleepy when brought into the crystal's influence. We repeated the experiment several times, and Fluffy would usually immediately lie down and go to sleep until removed.

"About two months ago, in the final battery of tests, something strange happened. Fluffy was brought into the lab and placed in a cage near the crystal. And instead of sleeping, she reacted as if every adrenal gland in her body had gone haywire. She threw herself at the bars of her cage, squealing in a way none of us had ever heard before. One of the lab assistants tried to remove her from the cage, but Fluffy attacked her - biting and scratching at the girl's hands as soon as they entered the cage. Fluffy collapsed and died a few minutes later."

The Brigadier frowned. "The crystal had this effect and you still went ahead with plans to use it on humans?"

"Brigadier, there were never plans to use the crystal on human beings," Rennard said. "The plan was to replicate its sound waves. And there were hundreds of tests run. The incident with Fluffy was the only anomaly. A dissection of the animal showed that she had suffered a brain aneurysm. It is far, far more likely that the aneurysm was the cause of her strange behavior than anything external."

"So it was a... coincidence," the Doctor said, flashing a meaningful look at the Brigadier. "Or was it something else?"

The Doctor stepped forward. "I think your crystal can generate more than one kind of effect. I think Alwyn Regan discovered a way to replicate the effect the crystal had on Fluffy, and magnified that effect to use against humans. A mind weapon, effectively."

"Rubbish!" Rennard snapped. "Really, Doctor, I thought you were a scientist!"

"A scientist considers all the facts," the Doctor said. "He doesn't throw out an incident simply because it doesn't seem to fit. Here's a chain of facts for your consideration. In a single, anomalous incident, a previously calm creature came into contact with the crystal and reacted violently. Alwyn Regan was certainly aware of this incident. Today, just two months later, both Regan and the crystal have disappeared. And just after Regan was seen leaving the building, Dr. Lloyd suddenly complained of dizziness, and was next seen in a violently agitated state - a human reprise of the incident with Fluffy. These are all facts, Dr. Rennard."

There was a long silence, during which both Rennard and the Brigadier absorbed his words.

Rennard spoke first. "Your line of reasoning is very speculative, Doctor."

But the Brigadier had reached his decision. "That's as may be, Dr. Rennard," he said. "But I think there is cause for concern. If the crystal can be used in the way the Doctor believes, then it would be highly valued as a weapon. I shudder to think what might happen if the Soviets or the Chinese were given the ability to control minds. It would be the ultimate terror weapon.

"I'll call Geneva, then have the military set up checkpoints at the docks, train stations, and airports. Regan mustn't be allowed to leave the country."

The Doctor turned to Rennard. "As for me," he said, "I want every scrap of research delivered to my lab."

"There's a lot of research, Doctor," Rennard replied. "Why don't I just give you the summaries?"

"No," the Doctor insisted. "I'll take the summaries with me right now. But I want everything by tomorrow morning. Every journal, every note, every memo. If there's a napkin with a doodle on it, I want it."

"It will take years to read through all that," Rennard protested.

The Doctor smiled. "I'm a fast reader," he said. "Just make sure I have the material."

Rennard looked to the Brigadier. "Have your staff gather up the material the Doctor requested," the Brigadier said severely. "I'll send some men by tomorrow to pick it up. This is a Security matter, now, Dr. Rennard. Your full cooperation is expected and required."

Rennard grimaced, but nodded his assent. "Very well, Brigadier. Doctor. You will have your papers. Every last scrap of them."

Rennard pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the lab, not waiting for his visitors to follow.

"You really think this crystal's that much of a threat?" the Brigadier asked.

"Time will tell, Brigadier. Time will tell."


	4. Legacies

CHAPTER FOUR

LEGACIES

* * *

**IF IT BLEEDS, IT LEADS: TARNISHING A HEROIC LEGACY**

**-Carl Kolchak, INDEPENDENT NEWS SERVICE**

**Today, for the first time in my life, I was ashamed to be a reporter.**

**I have always been proud of my profession. I came up as a cub reporter during the early 1950's, when Senator Joseph McCarthy used the public's fear of Communism as a stepping stone to personal power. I remember the pervasive atmosphere of fear in the newsroom, men of integrity not daring to speak up lest they be branded "Communists" by McCarthy and his cronies. I remember the feeling** **of dread certainty that, after Eisenhower's second term ended, this monster would become our next President.**

**I remember how proud I was the day the press finally stepped up to its duty, and stopped McCarthy in his tracks.**

**On March 9, 1954, Edward R. Murrow showcased the potential of the television news media when he aired a piece on Senator McCarthy "told mainly in (McCarthy's) own words and pictures." Though controversial, Murrow's program brought home to the American public for the first time just how unfounded McCarthy's charges really were. "This is not time for men who oppose Senator McCarthy's methods to keep silent," Murrow proclaimed, a rallying cry that was the beginning of the end for the Senator, whose career ended in public censure later that same year.**

**From that day, I was proud to announce to the world that I was a reporter. I was proud when the press publicized the violent struggle for Civil Rights in the South. I was proud when the press reported on the endless debacle that was this country's involvement in the Vietnam War. And I was positively jubilant when President Richard Nixon resigned on August 8 of last year, under a dark cloud of scandal made public by _Washington Post_ reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein. In a country with a free press, even the most powerful man in the world can be held to account!**

**A proud, heroic legacy. Today, before my very eyes, that legacy was tarnished.**

**At a press conference at the Highwater Medical and Scientific Research Center in London, England, Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd shot himself through the head in front of a crowd of reporters. This was a tragedy, a tragedy that was only compounded by the reaction of the assembled journalists. The "gentlemen of the press" proved to be anything but - and the gentlewomen were every bit as bad.**

**The newspaper and magazine reporters were bad enough. Charging in on the corpse, their cameras blazing like machine guns, their flashbulbs popping like fireworks on the** **Fourth of July, it was clear that these men and women were not shocked or horrified; they were overjoyed.**

**More disgusting still was the conduct of the television press. One Jane Greer of ITV, a popular commercial television station in Great Britain, was standing near Dr. Lloyd when he shot himself. Young Miss Greer was liberally splashed with the dead man's blood.**

**You might expect such a delicate young lady to scream, or faint. You would, at the very least, expect that she would clean the blood from her face as quickly as possible.**

**You would be wrong.**

**The attached photographs show that Miss Greer specifically chose not to clean herself. The dead man's blood, decorating her face and her clothes, became no more than** **props for Miss Greer to enhance the dramatic effect of her telecast, which I** **will not dignify with the term "journalism." Her cameraman was overheard in the crowd bragging to all who would listen that he got "the money shot" - the money shot here referring to the moment when Dr. Lloyd pulled the trigger. I sincerely hope that ITV's news editors have enough common decency not to air this footage. Based on what I saw today, however, I am not optimistic.**

**The sins of the press do not end with mere opportunism, however. In a live report that went out less than an hour after the suicide, Jane Greer crossed the line from mere sensationalism into slander. In this report, she indicated that Dr. Lloyd had been a drug addict, and cited "unnamed sources" to back up her claim. What sources might these be? I was at the same conference, and I did not observe Miss Greer in conversation with anyone associated with the Scientific Center. The only "unnamed source" I could find was a conversation recorded in the crowd between a reporter and a member of Miss Greer's crew. The crew member asked if the reporter thought Dr. Lloyd had been on drugs. "Must've been," the other man replied.**

**Such a conversation does not represent a source. It is speculation, groundless speculation, that is already being used to ruin the reputation of a man no longer able to defend himself.**

**The facts of the case are these. _Fact:_ Dr. Lloyd committed suicide. We do not yet know why; we may never know why. _Fact:_ Dr. Lloyd's autopsy results are not in yet, and will not be in until tomorrow. Until those results are in, we have no idea whether he was on every drug known to man, or whether his system is as pure as the New Hampshire snow.**

**And the final, most important fact. In its zeal for sensationalism, the press of the free world today surrendered its honor. Utpon Sinclair, H. L. Mencken, Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite, Carl Bernstein, and Bob Woodward - these men, and those like them, forged a heroic legacy. A legacy to which the mob I witnessed today simply have no claim.**

**I pray that today's hysteria was just an anomaly, and that I may be proud to be a reporter again someday.**

* * *

**PROMINENT SCIENTIST KILLS SELF AT PRESS CONFERENCE**

**The Facts of the Case, and Nothing but the Facts**

**-Carl Kolchak, INDEPENDENT NEWS SERVICE**

**Dr. Arthur Philip Lloyd, 47, shocked a large assembly of reporters and scientists when he committed suicide directly in front of the crowd, at the very time he was scheduled to deliver an address for a press conference.**

**Dr. Lloyd's address, and the following press conference, was to open a 3-day scientific conference at the Highwater Medical and Scientific Research Center in London, England. The speech was to be delivered at 9 A. M. on August 11. A few minutes after nine, Lloyd appeared in the conference hall holding a gun of unspecified make and model. He appeared to be in a state of confusion, saying repeatedly that he was "Sorry" and "Didn't know," though he made no indication of what it was he did not know.**

**Dr. John Smith, a scientist attached to the United Nations, was also attending the conference and made a strong effort to talk Lloyd out of his actions. Ultimately, despite Smiths' brave efforts, Dr. Lloyd aimed the gun at his own head and pulled the trigger. From all appearances, his death was instantaneous.**

**Exact reasons for Lloyd's suicide remain unknown. Though certain members of other press agencies have speculated about drug use, as of this writing such claims remain exactly that: speculation, with no evidence behind them. The autopsy was scheduled for the evening of August 11. Results should be made public sometime tomorrow.**

* * *

FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK 

_August 11, 5:48 P. M. After I extracted myself from the UNIT men and left the Scientific Centre, I spent the bulk of the afternoon developing my pictures and typing up my two stories, one a brief news story and the other a long opinion piece. I wired the stories, along with the selected photographs, direct to Tony._

_As the adrenaline rush of the morning wore off, I found myself less and less confident about my approach to the story. I had never been much of an opinion columnist, and I wasn't entirely sure how Tony would react to a long rant about the state of modern journalism. I was definitely taking a chance. But, as Geoff had said, it wasn't like there was much mystery about how every other paper would be treating this story._

_Less than half an hour after I wired the story, Tony called back. Unusually for him, he didn't even call collect. There was unusual sound in his voice, and at first I wondered if he was coming down with a cold. Then I realized what I was hearing: Tony was actually pleased._

_Tony Vincenzo happy is as incongruous as a ferocious tiger wearing a paper party hat and a rubber clown nose. I was glad I only had to hear him - I can only imagine how bizarre the smile on his face must have looked._

_It was like I had stepped into a parallel world. Tony loved my column, everything about it. He loved the time I spent on great moments in journalism, and he loved my rant against sensationalism. He **really** loved the idea of sticking it to the TV crowd. By the end of the conversation, he was talking about transforming this one column into a weekly series on gutter journalism. I cringed at the suggestion, but did my best to sound enthusiastic._

_By the time he finally hung up (another good half-hour later), I knew two things. One: I'll take an angry Tony Vincenzo over a happy one any day of the week. And Two: I desperately needed a drink._

Carl headed straight for the hotel bar and ordered a Scotch on the rocks. He was just about to ask the bartender if London bars had peanuts when a familiar voice piped up behind him.

"Carl! Come share a drink with a fellow dinosaur, mate!"

Carl grinned, and happily took his drink to the table where Geoff Mackenzie sat, drinking heartily from a tall vodka martini.

"Hell of a day, eh?" Geoff greeted him. "Get your story in?"

"Oh, yeah. Just got off the phone with my editor. That's why I came down for this." Carl indicated his Scotch.

Geoff chuckled. "Editors'll do that to you, all right. My paper's got a fuckin' woman editor, if you can believe it. Nice-lookin' girl too. The kind of gal you'd try to scoop up at a single's bar. But she's got brass ones down here. You believe she chewed me out for not having an original angle? Now I ask you, mate. What the fuck kind of angle are you supposed to have on a guy blowin' his brains all over the fuckin' floor?"

Carl took a big sip of his Scotch, and discreetly changed the subject.

He and Geoff sat there for a few more hours, and several more drinks, talking about all kinds of subjects. They both sneered and spat on the television journalists, though Geoff continued to insist that TV was the future. They talked about Vietnam, where Geoff had done a stint as a war correspondent. They talked about Korea, where both men had served their countries and lost their innocence. And, after enough liquor had gone under the bridge, they talked about their private lives.

"Two exes," Geoff said. "Two exes and five kids, and they slurp down every penny I make between 'em. You married, Carl?"

"Who, me?" Carl shook his head. "Came close once, a few years ago in Vegas."

"She walk out? Whine about you spendin' too much time chasing stories instead of chasin' her?"

Carl shook his head. "No, no. We had a sort of an agreement. She didn't complain about my hours, and I didn't complain about her work."

"Her work?"

"She was a hostess, at a Vegas casino. Gail Foster." Carl stared forward a moment. That was a name he hadn't thought about in a while. "Beautiful girl. Blond hair that was practically golden, and it smelled like... like flowers and honey."

"And what was a girl like that doin' with a mangy old dinosaur like you, mate?"

Carl laughed, shook his head. "I never really knew. She loved animals, and her apartment building was strictly no pets. I think she may have just been taking in a stray."

"So what happened?"

Carl shrugged. "Vegas. Just... Vegas." Carl didn't really want to pursue this subject further, so he changed it to one he was more comfortable with. "Those soldiers that came by the Centre. UNIT, you said."

"Yeah, bloody UNIT."

"Who are they? I mean, I consider myself reasonably well-informed. But I never heard of them."

"United Nations," Geoff said, flagging down a waitress and ordering yet another vodka martini-- "and no bloody ice in it this time." Then turned back to Carl. "United Nations Intelligence Task Force."

"Intelligence?"

"Yeah, but don't go creamin' yourself over that word. UNIT ain't about Checkpoint Charlie, the Iron Curtain, or the fuckin' Russkies. They'll pop up those places now and then, but that's not the real story on 'em." Geoff leaned forward. "Tell me, mate. Do you believe in weird shit?"

Carl felt a familiar chill crawling up his spine. "What do you mean by weird? The supernatural?"

"I mean what I say. _Weird shit_. Things most people would laugh at you, or lock you up, or both for sayin' you believed in."

Carl traced his finger along the edge of his glass. "I have seen things," he said. "Things I was never able to print, stories I was never able to tell. And not just once or twice, but a lot of times."

Geoff nodded. "Me too. First time I saw something was in Da Nang, '67. The locals said the dead walked. I laughed at 'em for bein' superstitious morons. Then I saw a whole platoon get cut up. And the guys who attacked 'em, they got shot. Over and over. And kept right on coming. The soldiers who survived got reassigned, and the pictures I took of the battle... well let's just say they got 'disappeared.' And the funny thing? After that, after never having seen any weird shit before in my life, I started to see it all the time. Everywhere."

"You know what I think?" Carl said. "I think we saw it before that first time. Me before Vegas, you before 'Nam. I think it was always there. We just didn't register it, because our noses hadn't been rubbed in it 'til we couldn't deny it anymore. I know in Vegas, I had to have my face shoved right in it about three different times before I admitted it to myself. But then, once you see it--once you really see it, and admit it's there--you can't go blind again. And the things you conveniently blotted out before, you suddenly see standing there in Technicolor."

"You hit it right on the head, mate," Geoff said, taking another big slurp of martini. "And that's UNIT. Standing toe-to-toe with the weird shit, in full fuckin' Technicolor glory. You follow them close, and you'll see. They go where the weird shit is. And they usually leave a trail of corpses behind 'em."

Carl took a long sip of his Scotch, turning Geoff's words over in his mind. "That suicide this morning. You have to admit, it was weird. And those soldiers showing up right afterwards? Sealing up a Research and Development institute like it was Fort Knox. Pretty damn weird."

"Oh, mate. Don't be getting' that gleam in your eye," Geoff said. "You just listen to Uncle Geoff's advice and forget it. No one ever gets a good story outta UNIT. A guy from New Zealand about five years ago, word is he tried to run a story on UNIT. A big expose, carefully fact-checked and everything."

"What happened to him?"

Geoff grinned, fished an olive out of his martini with a toothpick. "This." He took the olive between his teeth, chomped down hard, and swallowed it. Then he held up the toothpick, right in Carl's direct line of vision. And he snapped the toothpick in two and let the pieces drop onto the table.

* * *

As dusk fell over London, a man shuffled along the streets near Victoria Station. His jerky movements and unfocused, vaguely wild expression were those of a drugged-out dropout. Of which there were no lack, in the streets of London. 

But his clothes belied his movements. The clothes were tailored. Expensive. His watch was a gold Rolex. And yet he continued to walk in fits and starts, moving like a marionette along the stage of the darkening sidewalks.

He took no notice of the people around him. They were a blur. The sights, the sounds, the cars that passed. It was all out of focus, not quite real. The only real things in his world now were the voice in his head, and the music. And right now, the voice was withholding the music, demanding that he listen.

_We have to hide_, the voice insisted. _Dangerous to stay out in the open right now. Dangerous to let anyone see us._

If asked what his name was, the man could not have said. His name, his past, his family... they were there somewhere, a distant blur just outside the edge of his consciousness. But those details didn't seem important now. The important thing was the music, so vivid and haunting and tangible. He would do anything to be allowed to hear it once more.

And right now, the voice was telling him that he could not hear it until he found a place to hide. But where?

Words on a sign over a cottage. "Bed & Breakfast." Words that had meaning. What was the meaning?

Refuge.

He didn't so much walk to the door as fall against it. The voice told him to assume control of himself. He had to seem... what was the word? Respectable.

Just enough of the world came into focus for him to draw himself up and ring the doorbell.

The woman who answered asked if he was looking for a room.

"Yes." The voice supplied the words; all he had to do was speak them. "Room for the night. I didn't make a reservation, I'm afraid. But I do have cash."

The voice told him to show the cash in his billfold. The woman smiled, opened the door. She said they had a few rooms free, chattered something about the time of year. The voice told him to nod politely. She asked his name. The voice supplied one.

"Jones. Franklin Jones."

A few more formalities. He had to sign in a book. Something about luggage; no, he didn't have any.

"Car broke down, couldn't make it home." The voice supplied the excuse. "Just need a place for one night, I'll be leaving early tomorrow."

He handed the cash to the woman. More chatter. No, he wouldn't require a meal. He was tired, and just wanted to lie down and sleep undisturbed.

A girl came, led him to the room. Yet more chatter. Noise. He filtered it out, ignored it. Closed the door, locked it.

And then he was alone. Then he was safe.

The voice told him he could have the music back, now. He removed the crystal from his pocket--the crystal that spoke to him, the crystal that sang to him. He sat on the bed, and set the crystal carefully on the bureau.

He leaned in, his head so close that it was almost touching the crystal. And he listened to the music.


	5. Bed & Breakfast

CHAPTER FIVE

BED & BREAKFAST

FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK

_August 11, 11:04 P. M._

_I left Geoff at the bar finally, after a few hours trading war stories about the good old days of journalism. By the time I left, he looked like he'd need to wheeled up to his room on a baggage cart. I'd be lying if I said I was in much better shape. I collapsed into my bed as soon as I reached my room. In seconds, I was asleep, without even a hint of a thought spared for UNIT, strange suicides, or the horrific hangover I would inevitably suffer the next morning._

_I wasn't the only one trying to sleep. Dr. Heinrich Schoenfeld, age 57, on loan from Munich to the Natural History Museum in London, had spent what was for him an exciting day categorizing pottery shards found in a Welsh fougou. The fougous had been Dr. Schoenfeld's favorite hobby for as long as he had known of them, and the chance to finally work with them left him as gleeful as a small child left unescorted in a candy store._

_The following day, he was to leave on a trip to Wales, to actually visit the fougou where the pottery had been found. The sheer anticipation of actually seeing the object of his fascination left him unable to sleep. He literally could not wait for morning to come, so that he could be off._

_Perhaps if he had been just a little less excited and a little more tired, he might have had the chance to complete his work._

_August 12, 7:30 A. M._

_Sophie Matheson, 17, was the daughter of Judy Matheson, the woman who ran the Camfield Bed & Breakfast, located about 2 miles from Victoria Station, not far from London' Buckingham Palace. It was a modest B & B, offering friendly service and a central location as its main selling points to prospective guests._

_Sophie helped out during her school vacations, acting as a maid. Every morning since Dr. Schoenfeld's arrival, she had knocked on Dr. Schoenfeld's door to deliver his breakfast. Usually, he was awake before she got there. He would call her in and chat eagerly about dead cultures while he ate and she cleaned._

_Today, he was silent. And when Sophie entered the room, she discovered why._

_Dr. Heinrich Schoenfeld was dead, hanging from the ceiling by a noose of bedsheets. Sometime during the night, he had committed suicide._

* * *

The Doctor's first thought was that it was an image straight out of a painting. Sophie sat in a rocking chair, clutching a well-worn stuffed Dalmatian under her arm while staring thoughtfully out the window at the overcast afternoon sky. 

The Doctor stood just outside the doorway, Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart at his side and Judy Matheson, the girl's mother, hovering behind them both.

"You'll be gentle with her now," Mrs. Matheson urged in a whisper. "It was hard enough for her to talk to the police about it. And, well..." She trailed off, eyeing the Brigadier with his military mustache and spotless uniform.

The Doctor gave the woman a gentle smile. "I promise not to upset her," he said. "Brigadier, perhaps you would like to look around Dr. Schoenfeld's room while I speak with Sophie." He said it in the same genial tone. But he spoke firmly, brooking no argument.

The Brigadier nodded. "A good idea. We may as well conclude our business here as quickly as possible. If you would show me the way, Mrs. Matheson?"

The woman led the Brigadier down the hallway, leaving the Doctor alone at the teenage girl's door.

He knocked on the door gently, earning him a glance from her at last. He gave his most gentle smile.

"Hello there," he said. "May I come in?"

"You don't look like a cop," she said listlessly.

A trace hint of Welsh in her voice. Very light, a less trained ear probably wouldn't have picked it up. The Doctor hadn't heard any such hint in the mother's voice, so it had to be from the father's side.

"I'm not with the police," he agreed, venturing into the room. "I'm the Doctor."

"Doctor?" Sophie frowned. "Did mum call you? Because I'm not sick, and I don't need a doctor." Then, suspiciously: "Besides, if my mum did call you, what were you doing with that soldier bloke?"

"So you did see us," he said, pleased. "Your eyes were so intent on the window, I wasn't sure you had."

"I could see your reflections in the glass."

"Well, you are right, Sophie. I am not a medical doctor, and your mother did not call us. That soldier bloke, as you called him, was Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart, a colleague of mine. We work with the United Nations Intelligence Task Force. UNIT."

"Shouldn't that be UNIT-F?"

The Doctor chuckled, rubbed the back of his neck. "Well yes. Strictly speaking, I suppose it could be."

Sophie's frown deepened. "You said intelligence. You're not going to go telling me that Dr. Schoenfeld was a Russian spy or something like that, are you?"

He shook his head. "Not at all. Dr. Heinrich Schoenfeld was a leading authority in his field, a highly respected archaeologist with an excellent reputation. I've read several of his articles, I had a great deal of respect for his work."

That earned him the first hint of a smile he had seen from her. "He was a nice bloke," she said. "Most older fellas, they treat either treat you like a 5 year old or they act like you're invisible. Or they go all pervy on you. Dr. Schoenfeld, he'd just talk to me. Like a person, y'know? I liked him."

"I'm sure he would be glad to hear it." The Doctor glanced about for a place to sit. After a moment, he settled on the edge of the bed.

A small bed, decorated with stuffed animals of all varieties. He found a clearing beside a white rabbit. At least, he thought it was a clearing until he sat down and felt a distinct lump beneath him. He reached under and pulled out a stuffed red cat. He looked into its button eyes, bemused.

"Quite the menagerie you have here," he remarked.

Sophie smiled again. "That's Little Red. Because he's little and he's red, y'see? Boyfriend won him for me at the fair last June. The rabbit's Peter--like Peter Cottontail. Gram and Gramps gave him to me when I was 8."

"And that little fellow?" Indicating the dog that she still held in her arms. "What's his name?"

Sophie hesitated. "You probably think I'm a big baby, with all these stuffed animals."

"No," the Doctor said, very seriously. "We all need something to give our affection to. Something to hold onto, when we feel alone or helpless. I'm guessing that fellow you're holding is very precious to you."

She hesitated again, nodded. She blinked a few times, as if fighting back a tear.

"Tell me about him?" The Doctor took care to keep his tone mild.

Sophie looked down at the Dalmatian. "Dog," she said, her voice small. "He's just called Dog. I was thirteen, and my appendix went bad. Had to stay over at the hospital. I was... I was scared, y'know? My dad gave him to me. Told me he'd be my guard dog, he'd keep me safe. Last thing he gave me, before he left us."

And then she did cry, clutching the dog tight. "Look at me, crying like a baby!"

The Doctor crossed to her, handing her a handkerchief from his jacket pocket. She blew her nose, then looked down and noticed that the handkerchief was made of pure silk.

"Oh God." Mortified. "I'm so sorry--"

"Nonsense." The Doctor cut her off, patted her shoulder. "That's what a handkerchief is for."

Sophie still looked worried about the soiled handkerchief. "I do have another," the Doctor assured her. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the top of another silk handkerchief. "See?" He pulled it out--and another handkerchief emerged, tied to the first. He pulled again, revealing yet another. And then he pulled hand over hand, until a long chain of white silk handkerchiefs came out of the small jacket pocket.

Sophie laughed in spite of herself.

"Now what am I going to do with this lot?" he wondered, holding the chain. "I know." He leaned forward and draped the chain over Sophie's head, wrapping it around her neck like a great white scarf. Then he gently touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. "See? Plenty where that one came from."

He sat back on the edge of the bed, his face settling back into a serious expression. "Now I'm going to ask you a few questions. Probably very similar to what the police asked you earlier. Are you all right with that?"

Sophie nodded, her own face growing serious again to match his. Serious, the Doctor noted, but no longer quite as glum or haunted.

He leaned forward. "You were the one who found Dr. Schoenfeld, I know that much. It must have been a horrible thing to see." She nodded tightly. "I won't ask you to relive seeing him like that, I can get the details I need from the police report. But I need to know: Did you touch or move anything in the room after you entered it?"

She shook her head emphatically. "I couldn't even move. As soon as I saw him, I just dropped the breakfast tray. It was like it fell out of my hands by itself, y'know? I just stood there and screamed my head off. My mum came running, saw, and hauled me out of there fast as you please. Then she called the police. No one went in again until they got here."

"Good, good," the Doctor said. "What about Dr. Schoenfeld's mood? Had he been depressed or agitated lately?"

"Oh, no. He never got out-of-sorts about anything that I saw. He always seemed like such a happy fella, that's why it's such a shock. And last night, he came in really excited about something. Something to do with pottery. From the way he talked, it was a big deal for him."

"Hmm." The Doctor mused, thought for a moment. "What about visitors? Did anyone new come into his life recently? Or did anyone drop out of his life suddenly?"

"Not as far as I know," Sophie said. "Any people he sees, he pretty much sees at the museum. Here, he mostly sticks to himself. Stuck to himself, I mean," she added glumly.

The Doctor considered for a moment more, then nodded. "Very good."

He stood up. "Thank you, Sophie. You've been extremely helpful."

Sophie stood too, seeming surprised at the speed with which he had ended the interview.

"Is that all you're going to ask me? The police had lots more questions than that."

"You told me exactly what I needed to know."

Sophie looked down at the silk handkerchiefs, started to pull them off to give back to him.

"Keep those," he told her. "As a memento, if you like. Or for anytime you're feeling sad and need a good cry. After all, that's what they were made for."

* * *

"I looked over the scene," the Brigadier told him. "Everything consistent with a suicide. A bit odd there was no note. But not everyone leaves one, I gather." 

"Oh, it was a suicide," the Doctor agreed. "I never doubted it."

They were sitting at the kitchen table of the bed and breakfast, sipping tea that Judy Matheson had made for them. Good tea, the Doctor noted. Rich, black, and strong. She had been quite grateful when the Doctor told her that Sophie would be just fine, and even more grateful when the Doctor gave her his direct number at UNIT and volunteered to come out anytime Sophie felt the need to talk to someone.

"Do you think Dr. Schoenberg was involved in the theft?" the Brigadier asked.

"Schoen_feld_, Brigadier. It means 'beautiful field.' And no, Dr. Schoenfeld's reputation was impeccable, I doubt very much that he would be involved in anything illegal."

"Then why are we here?" This earned the Brigadier a sharp look from both Judy Matheson and the Doctor. He cleared his throat, continued with his point. "Yes, terrible tragedy and all that. But it does seem a damnable waste of time, particularly when we have a theft to investigate."

"We _are_ investigating, Brigadier. Do you have that photograph of Dr. Regan with you?"

More of a prompt than a question, really. Until this matter was resolved, the Brigadier would have that photo with him everywhere he went.

The Brigadier removed the photo from the pocket of his uniform, passed it to the Doctor. The Doctor glanced at it, then set it down on the table, his eyes fixed on Mrs. Matheson.

"Do you recognize this man?"

Mrs. Matheson gasped. "That's Mr. Jones!"

The Doctor shook his head. "I fear not. This man's name is Alwyn Regan, until yesterday a well-liked and well-respected member of the staff at the Highwater Medical and Research Centre. He's also wanted for questioning in a rather delicate matter. Is he a guest here?"

"He checked in last night, checked out early this morning. Just before..." Her face went ashen. "Sweet Mary!

"Just before your daughter delivered Dr. Schoenfeld's breakfast?" Mrs. Matheson nodded. "Tell me. Which is his room?"

"He stayed in Room 7. The room right next door to Dr. Schoenfeld."

* * *

The man lurked in a house across the street, watching intently out the curtained window. He had been watching ever since the grim man in the uniform and the tall man in the black cloak had arrived. These were the hunters, the voice told him. These were the ones he had to fear. 

The woman who owned the house had been reluctant to let him in, at first. When he pushed his way in, she had said something about calling the police. But he had removed the crystal from his pocket and let it share its music with her. Within a few moments, the light in her eyes had died forever, and the house had been his alone.

The tall man and the soldier had been inside the Bed & Breakfast for over an hour. Looking for clues, no doubt. Sniffing for a trail to follow.

The man was not worried, and neither was the voice. He had left no traces behind him. All he had done, the entire night long, was sit in front of the crystal, listening as it sang to him. And when he had left that morning, he had taken the crystal--and with it, the music--with him.

The tall man and the soldier finally emerged. They talked for a while. He was too far away to hear their words, but he could guess what was being said. The soldier was going to have some men canvas the neighborhood, doubtless with his picture, searching for some sign of him. The tall man believed the effort was futile. The soldier agreed, but felt it was necessary to go through the motions.

_So many of them just go through the motions,_ the voice said. _They aren't even really alive. They don't know themselves, and they don't care to know._

The tall man gestured to his blazing yellow car, and both men began to walk to the vehicle.

_That one is different. _He studied the tall man in the elegant suit of clothes.

"He is not a soldier." Perhaps he spoke the words aloud. Perhaps he merely thought them in his head. It made no difference; the voice heard him, either way.

_He is not like them. He is... other._

"Not..." What was the word? "Not human?"

_He is more like us than he is like them. He will help us to escape._

"He looks like them. He works for them. Why will he help us?"

_He will have no other choice. Follow._

The man waited until the hunters had climbed into the yellow car. Then, under the voice's careful direction, he took the woman's car keys and moved out to her car.

He stayed as many car lengths behind the yellow car as possible, while still keeping the car in sight. The elegant man was intelligent, but even he would not be expecting his quarry to follow him. As long as he was careful, he would not be seen.

The man let the crystal sit on the seat beside his, singing a beautiful medley for his ears alone.

* * *

FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK 

_A note for the uninitiated: Never attempt to go drink-for-drink with an old school Scot. I slept late that morning, and woke to the worst hangover I'd had in the better part of a decade. If I had wakened to find myself locked inside a bass drum at the Macy's Day Parade, the pounding couldn't have been any worse._

_I called down to room service and croaked out an order for tomato juice and bland, dry toast. By the time the room service waiter arrived, I had barely managed to struggle into the hotel's complementary robe, and had already decided that this was a day where I would stay in my room doing as little as possible._

_It was a good plan for a beat-up old journalist with a killer hangover. If only I had thought to take the phone off the hook..._

Carl had to stifle the urge to scream as the ringing of the telephone reverberated through his skull. He clasped his hands over his ears, reeled over to the infernal device, and picked up the receiver with shaking hands.

"Hello?" he rasped.

"Mornin' mate!" Carl cringed again as Geoff Mackenzie's too-cheerful voice boomed out of the receiver straight into his ear. "Nice story of yours, that I read in this mornin's paper. Aimin' to show the rest of us up as the pathetic bastards we are?"

"Geoff?"

"Well, it ain't Princess ruddy Anne. Y'know your story got me in a hell of a lot of trouble. My editor called and bawled me out for gettin' outscooped by a bloody Yank."

"You actually... saw my story? All the way out here?"

"It's the talk of the fuckin' town. You know Jane Greer, the ITV anchor who was their news celebrity yesterday evenin'? Well when I took breakfast today, half the room was booin' her and quotin' your article."

Carl groaned.

"You're a hero, mate. Every journalist who was there yesterday either wants to shake your hand or pound you in the nose, or both. So enjoy it while it lasts, cause it never does."

Carl groaned again.

"So you called to congratulate me?" he rasped.

"Not hardly. Just shook yourself out, did you? Well, it was a hell of a night, last night." Geoff's hearty laugh was like a buzz-saw going off in Carl's brain. "Take a shower and a glug of citrus. Then meet me at the Camfield Bed & Breakfast."

"The what and where?"

"The Camfield Bed & Breakfast. It's in the center of the city, I'll give you directions."

"What's... what happened?"

"Weird shit, mate. Like what we talked about last night. And I ain't sayin' more than that on the bloody telephone. You interested?"

Carl squinted his eyes shut, which seemed to help his jumbled thoughts to focus. Geoff Mackenzie... Weird shit...

...UNIT?

Carl sat up. "You better believe it, I'm interested," he said. "Hang on, let me grab a pen."

As Carl copied down the address and Geoff's directions, even through the haze of his hangover, he felt the old excitement rising in him. Something was afoot. Not a dull conference, not even a clever angle on a fairly straightforward news item. This was Carl's real calling: the chase. This was what he lived for.

"I'll be there in half an hour," he promised.

And after the briefest of cold showers, he gulped down his tomato juice, tossed the uneaten toast in the garbage, and all but ran out of the room, pulling on the jacket to his seersucker suit as he scrambled down the hall to the elevator.

* * *

The first thing Carl noticed as he got out of the car was the police. Two police cars were pulled up outside a small house a few doors down from the Camfield Bed & Breakfast. A few uniformed policemen walked in and out of the house, most of the rest just seemed to be standing around outside. Two young children, a boy and a girl, stood by a young female officer, looking glum and bewildered. 

"What's the story?" Carl asked Geoff, who was lounging against the brick-and-mortar wall of a shop, smoking a cigarette.

"That's what drew me down here this morning." Geoff grinned. "You might say I heard it through the grapevine. You see those two kids there with the lady copper?" Carl nodded. "Well, if you'd gotten your ass down here about 15 minutes sooner, you'd have seen their mum taken out of there in the meat wagon. Suicide."

He took a puff of his cigarette, proffered it to Carl. Carl shook his head.

"Good on you, mate," Geoff grunted. "Filthy habit." He took another puff.

"So who was the woman?" Carl asked.

"Eh, nobody really. Monica Nelson, 23. Divorced, working two jobs and taking in laundry to try and make ends meet for her and her two little ones. Dropped out of school to marry her ex when he got her pregnant, and he turned out to be a drunk and a loser. Kids came home from school to find her with her wrists cut open. Poor little sods."

"Sad, yes," Carl said, feeling a flicker of annoyance. Geoff had hauled him down here with a hangover, for this? "But I could name you ten stories from Chicago almost exactly like it, just off the top of my head."

"And I could swap you twenty more from Aberdeen!" Geoff replied sharply. Then, in a more even tone, "Yeah, I didn't think there was much here either. Was packing it in and getting ready to go back to the hotel, when I heard a couple of the lads talking. Something about not expecting this kind of business without a full moon. Nosy bastard that I am, I asked 'em what they meant."

"And?"

"Two weird things. Monica Nelson had a car. The car's missing. You don't get many people killing themselves to steal their own car now, do you?"

"And the other thing?"

"Monica Nelson is only the second suicide on this street today. The first was there." He pointed to the Camfield Bed & Breakfast. "And you'll never guess which very familiar faces co-opted the scene almost as soon as the bloody coppers arrived this morning."

"UNIT?" Carl's eyes narrowed.

"Aye." Geoff nodded. "Still think there isn't a story here?"

Geoff ground out his cigarette on the wall, dropped it to the ground, and stepped on it with his heel for good measure. "Come on, let's go."

As they reached the door to the Bed & Breakfast, Carl took a deep breath and drew himself up to his full height, forcing his face into the most officious expression it could manage. He indicated to Geoff to follow his lead.

"What're the names of the people who run this place?" he asked.

"Mrs. Judy Matheson," Geoff replied. "Divorced, but she still goes by Mrs."

Carl nodded his thanks, then rang the doorbell. A moment later, the bell was answered by a plump-faced middle-aged woman.

"Mrs. Matheson?" Carl inquired.

"Yes?"

"Carl Kol-uh-Kolcinski, INS." Carl had long since perfected the speed at which to flash his press card so that it would be visible long enough to look official, but not so long as to actually be read. "This is my colleague, Geoff Mackenzie."

"INS?" She seemed puzzled.

"Internal, uh, National Security Service," Carl said, thinking quickly.

"You sound American," Mrs. Matheson observed.

"Uh, yes. I'm American, and my friend here's from Scotland. We're a, um, international organization. We work with the United Nations."

"United Nations!" Her face lit up instantly, as if those two words explained everything. "You must be with the UNIT people from this morning."

"Yes, yes we are," Carl said confidently. "We have a few follow-up questions."

"Certainly, certainly. Come right on in."

Mrs. Matheson ushered them into the Bed & Breakfast and led them through the sitting room that doubled as a lobby.

Geoff leaned in toward Carl and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "Both internal _and_ international? That's some organization we belong to, mate."

Carl ignored him as they followed Mrs. Matheson into the kitchen.

A teenage girl was sipping a glass of orange juice by the sink as they entered. She gave Carl and Geoff a sharp look, then looked back to her mother.

"It's OK, Sophie dear," Mrs. Matheson said reassuringly. "These men are working with the men from this morning. They just have a few additional questions."

Sophie set down her glass and crosses her arms tightly, as if half-hugging herself.

"Sophie here found the body," Mrs. Matheson explained. "But then, you know that already, don't you?"

"Uh, yes. Yes, we do." Carl looked back at Sophie, who eyed him apprehensively.

"So you found the body?" he said.

"Y-yeah."

Carl was preparing a detailed mental list of questions when Geoff stepped forward.

"I'm sure you already gave a statement this morning," Geoff said to the girl. Sophie nodded. "D'you have anything to add to it?"

She shook her head. "He was hanging from the ceiling when I walked into his room this morning," she said. Her eyes started to tear. "Nothing more I saw than that."

"Then I think we'll just talk to your mum, here."

She flashed Geoff a grateful look, kissed her mother on the cheek, and excused herself.

Carl gave Geoff a harsh look. Geoff shrugged.

"Hard thing for a girl that age to see," he explained. "I got one that age back in Aberdeen. Wouldn't let any copper or press man put her through the mill, if it wasn't necessary." He turned to Mrs. Matheson "She seems to be holding up pretty well, though."

"You should have seen her this morning," Mrs. Matheson replied. Her tone was warm and grateful as she spoke to Geoff. "She spent most of the morning in her room, just looking out the window, refusing to say a word to anyone. I was worried, I don't mind saying. Didn't even want to let those UNIT men into talk to her. That soldier bloke was right harsh, didn't want to let him near my Sophie. But the Doctor, he was so good with her. She's been acting more like herself ever since he left."

"Doctor?" Carl looked over at her. "Not... Dr. Smith, by any chance?"

Mrs. Matheson frowned. "That might've been his name. The soldier bloke, he mainly just called him Doctor."

"Tall, white-haired man?" Carl pressed. "Clothes like Liberace, nose like Cyrano de Bergerac?"

Mrs. Matheson bristled. "I thought he was very distinguished," she sniffed. "He was a proper gentleman."

It was clear from her tone that she considered Carl anything but a "gentleman."

She turned back to Geoff, apparently having decided to ignore Carl. "He was the reason the UNIT men came in the first place."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, that soldier bloke with him, he thought Dr. Schoenfeld was just a suicide. Actually accused the Doctor of wasting his time."

"But the Doctor wasn't wasting his time, I'd wager," Carl said.

The woman's eyes narrowed as she looked back at Carl. "I thought you said you was working with 'em?"

"Well, yes."

"Then why would you 'wager' he wasn't wasting time. Shouldn't you already know?"

"Well, uh..." Carl stammered, his mind casting about for a rapid way to paper over the discrepancy.

"It was just a manner of speech, ma'am," Geoff interjected in his most congenial tone. "Mr. Kolcinski here is, as you noted, an American. They tend to be a touch more careless with their words, over there." He fixed Carl with a look as he emphasized the word "careless."

Carl flushed slightly. "Yes, well. About the Doctor."

"You do seem awful interested in him." Mrs. Matheson still regarded Carl harshly, though Carl noted that her suspicion seemed to have eased.

"As you say, he is the one who knew that Dr. Schoenfeld's death was more than just a suicide. Without him, we wouldn't be here now."

"What did he ask you, ma'am?" Geoff said, giving her a smile. "It really is important."

She smiled back at Geoff, and once again spoke only to him as she answered. "Well, the Doctor was very interested in the guest staying next door to Dr. Schoenfeld. An odd duck, that one. Came in very suddenly last night. Didn't call ahead, no luggage, nothing. Said his car was broken down, and he needed a place to bunk the night. Of course I was suspicious, but... well, he paid cash, didn't he?"

Carl felt a rush of anticipation.

"This guest," he said. "What was his name?"

"He gave his name as Jones," Mrs. Matheson replied.

"But it wasn't Jones, was it?" Geoff pressed. Carl could hear a reflection of his own eagerness in Geoff's tone.

"The soldier bloke, he had a picture with him. Same man, plain as day. Said his name was Regan."

"Regan," Carl repeated.

"Yeah."

"Is that a first name or a last?"

Mrs. Matheson's eyes narrowed again, fixing on Carl. She looked back at Geoff, then at Carl again. "I think maybe I should have another look at that I. D.," she said.

Carl touched the brim of his straw fedora. "Thank you for your time, Mrs. Matheson," he said quickly. "You've been most helpful."

"Thank you, ma'am," Geoff echoed, then hastily followed Carl out the door.

"Oi!" Mrs. Matheson shouted after them. "Come back here! I'll call them UNIT fellas on you, I will!"

But Carl and Geoff were already bustling out the front, running back to their cars. By the time Mrs. Matheson had located the card Brigadier Lethbridge-Stewart had given her, the two reporters were already peeling off down the street, putting as much distance between themselves and the Camfield Bed & Breakfast as they could manage.

* * *

Sergeant Benton was showing Regan's picture to the umpteenth person that afternoon when the two cars shot past him. He turned his head, watching them disappear around a corner. 

"Got a bank nearby?" asked the man he had stopped.

"About a mile that way." The man pointed.

"Huh." Benton grunted. "If you'd pointed right behind us, I'd have guessed they'd just robbed a bank, way they were driving."

"Maybe they were both in labor."

"Yeah." Benton chuckled. He held up the photo again. "So, any recollection? He'd have been wearing a sort of beige suit and red tie."

The man shrugged. "You see lots of beige suits and red ties, going to work in the morning in the morning and coming back in the afternoon. They all kind of look alike. Gets to where you don't even notice the people."

"Yeah," Benton said with a sigh. "I know exactly what you mean. Thanks anyway."

He moved on down the street, keeping an eye out for another likely person to question.

Benton had known, of course, that this assignment was a futile effort. Necessary, of course; you had to cover all the bases. But with the head start Regan had on them, there was no realistic chance of turning up anything useful.

He and his men had fanned out in a square, starting three blocks out from the Camfield Bed & Breakfast and gradually closing in. Knocking on doors, stopping people on the street, showing Alwyn Regan's photo to everyone they met.

But as the man he just left had noted, a thirtyish man in a business suit would blend in just about anywhere.

Benton resigned himself to the half-asleep mindset best suited to hopeless grunt work. Going through the motions. It was in that mindset that he arrived at the center of the square, the Bed & Breakfast.

He was immediately brought up to full alertness by the sight of two police cars, pulled in outside a house down the street from the Bed & Breakfast. The police were just getting ready to leave the scene.

Benton affected his most easygoing slouch as he approached a man in a police sergeant's uniform.

"What's the story?" he asked in a lazy drawl. He flashed his UNIT I. D.

"Suicide. Young woman." The policeman filled in the details about the death of Monica Nelson. "Tragedy, really. Had two young kids, they were the ones who found her, coming home from school. Great thing for them to come home to."

"That's rough," Benton agreed.

"Yeah. Ex is a useless drunk, too. Hope there's a grandmother or an aunt or something who can take 'em in. Otherwise, they're liable to end up wards of the state."

Benton pulled out the picture of Regan. "Did you happen to see this man hanging about?"

The policeman looked, shook his head. "Not that I recall. We were here over an hour, though. Attracted a fair crowd of gawkers. You think this is something other than a suicide?"

"Don't know," Benton replied. "We're just... looking into a few things in the immediate area."

"Well, there was one funny thing."

"What's that?"

"She had a car. A '73 Volkswagen. It's missing. We sort of figured someone from around here nipped in before the kids got home, saw she was dead, and decided to help themselves. Still, it's unusual."

Benton's easygoing slouch instantly vanished. He drew himself crisply, the picture of a military man. His lazy drawl sharpened into a confident, commanding tone.

"Here's what you are going to do, Sergeant. You are going to give me every detail you have about that car. Then you are going to call your superiors and put every man on the search for that missing car. From now until it is found, that car is your top priority. Understood?"

"Now see here, my superiors--"

"Will be getting a call from my superiors within the hour. And I think we both know that my boss can beat up your boss. Let's not waste time, please. Just get your men on it, it'll be official soon enough."

Benton took down the information about the missing car. Make, model, year, color, license number. Then he marched a discreet distance away from the police and pulled out his radio.

"Trap One to Greyhound, Trap One to Greyhound. Over."

The Brigadier's voice crackled through the radio. "This is Greyound. Go ahead, Trap One."

"The rat has slipped the trap. Over."

A short pause. "About as expected. He had quite the head start."

"There's more, sir. Our rat got away with some cheese."

A long silence. "Clarify, Benton. Over."

"We have another body, sir," Benton reported bluntly. "Just like the others. And our target, one man on foot? Well, sir, he's not on foot anymore."

* * *

The man crouched in the woods across from UNIT Headquarters, watching and waiting with dispassionate, patient vigilance. 

He had followed the tall man's distinctive yellow car from the Bed & Breakfast, all the way through to the outskirts of London. When the car was waved through a guarded security gate, the man had driven past. He had neither slowed nor stopped, he had been careful to do nothing to draw the soldiers' attention to him. But he had watched the rear-view mirror closely, noting which of the base's buildings the tall man and the mustached soldier entered.

_Our target,_ the voice had exulted.

He had driven for two more miles, until he passed a field near a wooded area. Then, at the urging of the voice and the prompting of the music, he had abandoned the car in the field and returned to the military base on foot, staying in the trees to avoid being observed.

"When do we move?" he asked the voice.

_Patience,_ the voice counseled. _Too many soldiers. We are too vulnerable._

"There will be fewer at night." He didn't know why he was sure of that. But it seemed right, somehow. Why? "At night, they sleep. They will have only a few men on duty then."

_Then we wait for night._

The music was now muffled, the crystal wrapped up and tucked into his pocket once more. But come nightfall, the voice promised him... come nightfall, he would experience the music as he had never experienced it before.


	6. The Scientific Advisor

CHAPTER SIX

THE SCIENTIFIC ADVISOR

FROM THE DIARY OF CARL KOLCHAK

_August 12, 5:01 P. M._

_After our quick exit from the Camfield Bed & Breakfast, Geoff and I reached a quick agreement. Much as we both generally disliked the idea of working with a partner, it was clear that this story would be easier to investigate if we divided our resources. __Geoff had the benefit of contacts with the local police... something this Chicago boy simply didn't have so far from home. So we agreed that Geoff would try to find information of the missing car. Meanwhile, I devoted the rest of my day to hunting down any information I could about UNIT, and their unknown connection to this case._

_I spent the rest of the afternoon at the library, sifting through periodicals and microfilm for any mention of UNIT whatever. Unsurprisingly, there wasn't very much on the official record. A vague mention here or there, but little to describe who they were or what they did. One thing that did stand out, even from my admittedly superficial research: whenever a story mentioned UNIT, an accounting of dead men and damaged property inevitably followed._

_After a little over three hours ofeyestrain,I felt I was prepared for an interview. My target: the one civilian link with UNIT that I was aware of - Cambridge University Professor Elizabeth Shaw, former Scientific Advisor to UNIT and the very woman I had observed with Dr. Smith at the conference._

* * *

Elizabeth Shaw was extremely gracious and welcoming when she opened the door to Carl. She told him to call her Liz, and praised his article on the behavior of the press after Dr. Lloyd's suicide. She dropped in just enough detail to let him know she actually had read the article.

"Thank you for refuting the drug charges," she said. "I knew Arthur. The way some of the press, particularly the television press, talked about him... That wasn't Arthur. Thank you for restoring at least some of his dignity."

Her apartment was modest, but extremely well-kept. The living room was just small enough to be intimate, while at the same time it was spacious enough to be comfortable.

"I did notice you at the conference," Liz said.

Carl gave a self-deprecating smile. "Not too many people there in old seersucker suits and straw hats, were there?"

Liz smiled. "Well, at least you look the part. So many reportersare indistinguishable from lawyers or accountants. It's rather refreshing."

She ushered Carl over to a stuffed white chair and offered him tea, which he declined, and brandy, which he accepted.

"So you're with an American newspaper, then?" she asked, as she settled into the loveseat opposite him. Her voice was as cool and level as her gaze. Carl found himself fumbling with the buttons of his tape recorder as he settled back in the chair.

"Not a newspaper exactly," he said. "INS is a news service. We put stories on a wire, which are either picked up or not picked up by the newspapers that syndicate us."

"Oh!" her eyes brightened with recognition. "Like the Associated Press?"

"If you took away about 85 of their circulation."

"And you came to cover the conference at the Highwater Institute. Such a tragedy what happened to poor Arthur. Such a brilliant mind... I couldn't believe it. I guess you never can tell how a person will react when they've under a strain."

"Yes," Carl agreed. "Quite unexpected, I gather."

"Suicide is always unexpected, Mr. Kolchak."

"My years as a reporter tell me otherwise," Carl replied. "Nothing ever comes out of nowhere. There's always a story, Dr. Shaw... Liz. Though not always a story people want to have told."

Liz's eyes narrowed. Carl felt as if the room had grown just a hint colder.

"You aren't here to ask me about the conference, or even about Arthur." It was a statement, not a question. "Why are you here, Mr. Kolchak?"

Those cool eyes, regarding him. Measuring him--and, Carl suspected, finding him wanting. He took a large sip of his brandy before leaning forward, scrutinizing her closely.

"I have some questions about you, Dr. Shaw."

"Me?"

"Your time with UNIT."

There it was. Just the tiniest of reactions, a flicker of the eyes. If Carl hadn't been watching her face so closely, he probably would have missed it.

"Nobody's been overly eager to talk to me," Carl went on. "And there's not exactly a lot on the public record. But there was enough, just enough to lead me to you."

"Such as?" Voice and gaze had gone from cool to frosty.

"It's a matter of record that you were hired as UNIT's scientific advisor about 5 years ago. Hardly a surprising choice. Your record and reputation in all areas was above reproach. But you served for less than single year. Why is that?"

A softball question. Carl hoped it would relax her.

She smoothed her skirt, leaned back slightly. "I had no interest in government work. I never wanted the position in the first place. And shortly after I arrived, the position was filled by a more qualified party."

"Ah, yes. The inestimable Dr. John Smith. Who appeared on the scene almost immediately after you did, and was instantly given the position of Senior Scientific Advisor. In essence, you were demoted almost as soon as you were hired."

Liz's smile grew tight and thin. "Still trying to win your little _tête-à-tête_ with the Doctor from yesterday morning, Mr. Kolchak? There was nothing unusual in UNIT giving him the senior position. He was simply more qualified."

"And so you stayed a while, to ease him into the position, before moving back into academia?"

Liz nodded. "If you will."

"In fact, you stayed for..." He checked his notebook again. "7 months after Dr. Smith's arrival. That is an impressive transition period."

Liz colored. "Dr. Smith is a remarkable man, Mr. Kolchak. You may find this hard to comprehend, but I enjoyed working with him. For a while, I enjoyed working with him more than I missed university life."

"Yes..." Carl mused, letting the syllable hang in the air. "He must be a truly remarkable man, to be even more qualified than you."

"My qualifications are solid, but hardly unique."

"Whereas Dr. Smith's qualifications are extremely unique?" Liz glared at him wordlessly. Carl met her cold gaze directly. "What are Dr. Smith's qualifications?"

"I'm sure those are a matter of public record," she said stiffly.

"Oh yes, there are plenty of degrees on record. An impressive list of degrees and credentials. All the t's dotted and i's crossed, as we say. Doubtless printed up by the best experts in the field." She opened her mouth to retort. Carl cut her off before she had a chance. "It's funny, Dr. Shaw. I only spent a couple of hours' background research on you before I came here. Yet I could rattle off a list of works published under your name going well back to the middle 1960's. I've seen your old school photos, I know at least some of the organizations you've belonged to. And with a few days' work, I could dig up your political affiliations, your taste in wine... give me a week, and I would even know the name of the first boy you kissed."

"Kevin Leary," she snapped back. "There, I just saved you a week. Do you have a point, Mr. Kolchak? Or should I ask you to leave now?"

"My point," Carl said, "is that Dr. John Smith has NO photos on record with any of his listed universities. He has NO apparent family. NO apparent childhood friends. And NO works published under his name--not even an article in the campus journal or a letter to the editor of the local newspaper--prior to his arrival at UNIT. You could say he's shy, and doesn't like to publish. But a year after his arrival at UNIT, he suddenly publishes a dozen articles in the most respected journals in the world of science!

"It is as though," he continued, "Dr. John Smith is a man with no past at all. He just appeared one day out of thin air, and was promptly granted the keys to the kingdom."

Liz stood up from her seat, clearly having heard enough.

"Mr. Kolchak, I don't know what it is you believe you know. But I think it is time for you to leave."

She walked briskly to the door, clearly expecting Carl to follow.

Carl just sat stubbornly in place, draining the last sip of brandy from his glass.

"Dr. Shaw," he said, "UNIT is more than an intelligence-gathering outfit, and far more than just an advisory committee to the United Nations. You know it, and I know it." He set down his glass, and picked up his hat from the table. "I can't yet prove it, but I believe that Dr. Lloyd was working with UNIT on something. Perhaps it was a gas or a chemical of some kind, I don't know. But something happened at the Highwater Medical and Scientific Research Center last Monday. Something that has cost the lives of three people, maybe more!"

Liz opened the door. "You are clearly delusional, Mr. Kolchak. Leave. Now."

Carl chuckled. He placed his rumpled, weather-beaten hat on his head, then picked up his tape recorder. "There are two types of people who will call you delusional, Dr. Shaw. Those who honestly believe that you're stark raving mad. And those who have something to hide." He walked casually over to her, flashing his brightest smile. "I've been a reporter long enough to know the difference."

He touched the brim of his hat and nodded, then walked out the door, whistling cheerily to himself. He had walked most of the distance to his rented car before he finally heard the door shut behind him.

* * *

Liz Shaw just stood at the closed door for a moment, leaning against it for strength. UNIT... the Doctor. That was a chapter of her life she had thought closed long ago. 

She walked over to the chair in which the pushy American reporter had sat. Dead center of the chair, he had left a white card for her. She held up the card, studied it. It suited the man to a "T." There was no adornment--no symbols or logos. Just black ink works against white cardstock, spelling out the name "Carl Kolchak." A Chicago telephone number beneath the name. And beneath that, scrawled in dreadful handwriting in pencil, a London phone number. Presumably his hotel.

"Cocky bastard," she murmured, though she felt herself smiling lightly at the cheek of it.

But when she picked up the phone and dialed, Carl Kolchak was not the man she was calling.

* * *

"Lethbridge-Stewart," the Brigadier announced into the receiver as he answered the phone. "Why, Miss Shaw. What a pleasant surprise!" 

The Doctor looked up from the boxes on his workbench. Two large crates, stuffed to the brim with the late Dr. Lloyd's journals, notes, sketches, photographs, and test results. They had been waiting in his lab when he and the Brigadier had returned to UNIT, and he had been poring over them ever since.

"The Doctor's here," the Brigadier continued, noting the Doctor's glance. "I'm quite sure he'd like to say hello." The Brigadier frowned. "Not a social call, then?" His frown deepened. "Kolchak, you say? Yes, unfortunately I have met him. What did he say?" The Brigadier listened intently, his expression grave. "No, it sounds like you handled yourself perfectly. Thank you for notifying me, Miss Shaw. I'll take it from here."

He hung up the phone.

"I wanted to talk to her!" the Doctor protested.

"You can call and play catch-up with Miss Shaw any time you like," the Brigadier said mildly. "We have a new problem. That American reporter, Kolchak. The one who tried to get back into the Institute after we sealed it off yesterday."

"Yes, yes," the Doctor said. "An irritating little man, but hardly a grave concern at the moment."

"That 'irritating little man' has had a busy afternoon. First, Mrs. Matheson at the Bed & Breakfast calls to ask about a Mr. Kolcinski - describing Kolchak to a 'T.' Now it seems now he's harassing Miss Shaw."

"Liz can handle a reporter," the Doctor said, already turning his attention back to the notes on his desk.

"This reporter might be a bit trickier," the Brigadier persisted. "Mrs. Matheson thought he was working with us, and told him about our interest in Alwyn Regan. So he knows almost as much as we do at this point. When we've located Regan and the crystal, we may have difficulty creating a cover story that will persuade him."

"I'm sorry, Brigadier, but I have little interest in your cover-ups."

"Then perhaps this will interest you. According to Miss Shaw, most of his questions were about you!"

The Doctor glanced sharply up from his notes.

The Brigadier drew himself up to his full height. "I think it would be a good idea for me to have a quiet little chat with our Mr. Kolchak."

"If you must." The Doctor looked back at his notes.

"Yes," the Brigadier said. "I think I must."

He picked up the telephone receiver again. and briskly arranged for Sergeant Benton to meet him at Kolchak's hotel.

"Back in an hour, Doctor," he said as he left the lab.

"Take your time, dear fellow," the Doctor muttered, not lifting his eyes from the journal in front of him. "Take your time."

* * *

The man sat cross-legged beneath a tree, concealed from sight as he studied the military base. The sky was growing darker, now. Soon it would be night. Soon, he would hear the music. 

He watched as the mustached soldier emerged from the building he and the tall man had previously entered. He beckoned to two younger soldiers. One man marched to a green jeep, and pulled the vehicle up alongside the soldier with the mustache. The other man held the door to the jeep open as the mustached soldier climbed inside. The arm of the security gate rose to let the jeep through. A moment later, they were gone.

_The warrior has left._

"The tall man did not leave with him."

_That is good. We need him. And now he will be alone._

"There are other soldiers. They have guns."

_Will they destroy on sight?_

The man thought a moment, balancing the question against the weight of his own, barely-remembered experiences.

"No," he said at last. "Even if they recognize us, they will try to capture before resorting to force."

_They will let us get close?_

"Yes."

_Then we will play our music for the destroyers, and we will watch them dance._

On a distant level, the man realized that he should have been disturbed by the grim satisfaction in the voice's statement. A lifetime ago, when he had truly been the man called Alwyn Regan, he would have been disturbed. But the music had placed him above such sensations.

He rose, pulling the wrapped crystal from his pocket. He stepped out of the trees, into the street. Began walking toward the security gate.

The two soldiers at the gate saw him already. They watched his advance with bemusement, showing no sign of recognition.

Following the voice's instructions, the man raised his arm in a wave. The soldiers waved back.

As he reached the gate, one of the men stepped forward. "You lost, mate?"

He nodded.

"Where you headed?"

"One moment. I will show you." He unwrapped the crystal and held it up, directly in front of the soldier's face.

For an instant, the two soldiers started to raise their guns, to react. Then the music enveloped them. It was a mere overture to what was to come, but it rose almost immediately into a brilliant crescendo.

The soldiers' guns fired. One shot. Two shots.

The man walked casually around the security gate. He stepped gingerly over the two soldiers' corpses. And then walked into the base itself, following the music to the tall man's building.

_Free,_ the voice hissed triumphantly. _We shall be free!_


End file.
